"You kiss your mama with that mouth?"

Why, yes. Yes I do. Who do you think taught me the filthiest words I know?

I grew up in a house where no words were forbidden. (Well, that’s not exactly true: the “n” word was absolutely banned. To this day, I can’t even read that word without flinching.) Any and all swear words were tossed about on a regular basis by both of my parents, my sister, and myself.

My parents’ philosophy made perfect sense to me then, and it still does. There’s no such thing as a “bad word.” Words are words, plain and simple. It’s how you use them that gives words power. So no one batted an eyelash when four-year-old me stubbed her toe and let fly with, “GODDAMN IT, THAT HURTS LIKE A MOTHERFUCKER!” But when four-year-old me called someone an asshole? That was serious trouble.

Those who disapprove of colorful language like to trot out the old saw that people who swear do so because they have poor vocabularies and no imagination. If you think this is true, I invite you to join my father for dinner sometime. No meal at the Mr. Crazy Senior household has ever been enjoyed without the Oxford English Dictionary being hauled out and consulted at least once. And try engaging my dad in a friendly game of Scrabble sometime: he plays for blood.

As for my mother, I have her to thank for my huge repertoire of dirty songs and poems. Here’s a little number we enjoyed belting out while hiking:

There once was a hermit named Dave
Who kept a dead whore in his cave.
When asked, “Does it stink?”
He said, “Yes, but think
Of all of the money I’ll save.”

There once was a man from Nanteen
Who invented a fucking machine.
But on the first stroke
The damn machine broke
And whipped up his balls to a cream.

There are several more verses, but you get the picture.

I wish I could have the same devil-may-care attitude about my own children swearing, but the sad truth is I’m very uptight about it. With my sewer mouth, you’d think my kids would cuss like a couple of sailors. But somehow I managed to clean up my act, and neither JJ nor The Peanut knows a single curse word. Not because I give a crap if they swear, but because I care too much about what other people think. I would be mortified if JJ’s preschool teacher had to call me in for a conference about his foul language. My mother? She wouldn’t have cared at all. On the way home, she would have explained that some people have sticks up their asses and we have to watch what we say around them or they freak out. Then she would have laughed and stopped off for ice cream.

I tell myself that once the kids are old enough to know when and where it’s okay to curse, I’ll let it all hang out. I hope this is the case. My parents may have fucked me up in other ways, but I’ll always thank them for teaching me to love all kinds of words.

The Hot Zone

The Flames of Damnation have warmed our house to the perfect temperature for incubating human pathogens. Don’t even think about coming over unless you don a full-body biohazard suit.

First we had the Virus of Doom (which I personally believe is a sneaky strain of influenza omitted from this year's vaccine cocktail). Then we had Mystery Pustules, which we originally thought was chicken pox but cleared up upon treatment with antibiotics. Then conjunctivitis, complete with green slime oozing from both eyes. And now strep throat.

Right now I’m suffering from three of the four ailments. And I’m sure at any moment Mystery Pustules will start breaking out all over my body.

If I believed in karmic retribution, I’d be scrambling to make amends to everyone I fucked over in a previous life.

Holidays, Crazy-style

We’re equal opportunity celebrants here at the House of Crazy. Christmas, Hanukkah, Solstice, even a little Kwanzaa—it’s all good. We lit the candles in our menorah, cut down and trimmed our Christmas tree, spun the dreidel, and put out cookies and milk for Santa. And thanks to JJ’s groovy preschool, we even donned kufi hats and learned about Dr. Karenga.

And, of course, we opened presents. Lots and lots of presents. With three sets of grandparents who want nothing more than to spoil them, JJ and The Peanut get so much stuff it’s almost obscene. We’re going to have to have a little family conference about this, but meanwhile, we’re learning all about giving to kids who don’t have as much as they do.

I feel lucky to have children who really appreciate everything they get. Our Christmas morning was a five-and-a-half-hour extravanza of gift opening, bagels-and-lox eating, and lounging around in jammies. JJ and The Peanut would open a gift, then sit back and play with the toy or read the book for a while. At one point, they took a long break in JJ’s room to build an elaborate house with their new set of Legos. I loved how they savored and enjoyed each gift—not that there’s anything wrong with a frenzy of ripping open packages. I just liked that they took Christmas at their own pace.

I know the holidays make everyone a little crazy, but I hope yours brought you happiness and peace. And if not, may the New Year be filled with everything you need.

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

Conversation in the car the other day:

The Peanut: Ah pooped!

Me: Oh, you pooped? Okay, we'll change you when...

The Peanut: JJ pooped!

JJ: (Indignantly) I did not! Peanut, that's not a very respectful way to talk about people.

The Peanut: Mommy pooped!

JJ: HAAhahahahahahahahhaha! Mommy pooped! Hahahahahaha!

Chorus from the backseat: Mommy pooped! Mommy pooped!

Peanut talk

The Peanut is talking up a storm these days. Chatting, singing, telling stories, and performing comedy routines. Of course, you have to speak her language to understand what she’s saying, but once you have a grasp of her peculiar vocabulary, you’re in business.

Her favorite story is about how a little fly once buzzed around her eye. This incident occurred more than a month ago, and she is still quite worked up about it. “Fyyyyyyy,” she intones aggrievedly while pointing at her eye. “Fyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy.” She’ll repeat this until you give her the “oh-yes-I-remember-a-fly-buzzed-your-eye-and-you-didn’t-like-it-did-you” response.

She also likes to relate the tale of her most recent poopalanche: “Dit. Poopt. Zhazha. Mommy. Jaji. Yucky.” Translation: “I sat in that chair and pooped. Poop got all over me, Mommy, and JJ. It was yucky.” True story.

I know I’m her mother and therefore biased, but I love how articulate and self-aware she is. “Zhyyyyyyy,” she says as she ducks her head and gazes coquettishly through her eyelashes. “Oh Peanut,” her brother replies, “Are you feeling shy? I’m shy sometimes, too.”

She’s a heartbreaker already, that one. Just wait until she has her Ph.D.—she’ll be unstoppable.

"It's so hard being four."

JJ had his fourth birthday the day after Halloween, and the House of Crazy has been in an uproar ever since.

I’m not sure why four is such a big deal for kids. Maybe it’s just that they’ve become increasingly aware of what age means with respect to their place in the world. A few months ago, JJ’s friend Q was waking up in the middle of the night screaming, “I’m not four yet! I’m not four!” Another friend recently announced that she wouldn’t be turning four, period. Four is serious business.

JJ was very, very excited about turning four. One of his closest friends is four and a half, and he idolizes her. “When will I be four and a half, Mommy?” He must ask me that at least 20 times a day.

Four is…interesting. Suddenly, the child who used to insist on being carried everywhere throws a screaming fit if he doesn’t get to open the car door and climb into his carseat. God help you if you flush the toilet for him or clear his dinner dishes. JJ is all about independence—as long as it’s on his terms, of course.

For JJ’s preschool’s parent education class, we were assigned reading from Liberated Parents, Liberated Children by Faber and Mazlish. Much of this book has resonated with me, but I was especially struck by the chapter dealing with nurturing a child’s sense of autonomy. “We help most by not helping,” write the authors, and if that’s true, then I’ve been doing a JJ a big disservice for a while now.

So this morning I decided to give him the opportunity to struggle. “I’d like you to pick out your clothes and get dressed yourself,” I said cheerfully. I expected some resistance, but I must confess I was unprepared for the full-fledged freakout that ensued. After about 20 minutes of hysteria, JJ launched himself into my arms and sobbed, “Mommy, it’s so hard being four.”

It's true. Growing up is hard. And he is only four, after all. So I’ll tell you what: if I’m still wiping his ass by the time we attend MotherBoy XXX, then we’ll revisit this whole independence thing.

These gay strippers are ruining my life

When Jack’s parents bought JJ this trio of dolls, I was delighted. For one thing, the fact that they bought dolls for our boy (and removed all the guns from the package before giving them to him) was unusually enlightened for them. And the dolls themselves! Okay, they’re not exactly Barbies, but they are clearly gay strippers, complete with Velcro fastenings on their manly clothing. We immediately christened them the Hot Cops and wasted hours playing with them.

JJ could not have cared less about them, incidentally.

But now The Peanut has developed an unhealthy fascination with the Hot Cops. Specifically, she is obsessed with taking off their boots and putting them back on. She can’t quite manage it, however, and gets completely worked up and hysterical about the whole business. Consequently, I spend a ridiculous amount of time taking those goddamn boots off and putting them back on.

She also loves putting their hats on, a task that is quite impossible even for me because their plastic hair is so enormous.

So now our peaceful household is frequently shattered by frustrated cries of “DEET!” (meaning feet/boots/help me get these fuckers on and off) and “DAT!” (meaning hat/gigantic hair/why oh why can I not get this stupid hat on over this gay stripper’s gigantic hairdo).

The Hot Cops have got to go.

Hold me closer, set me free

I’ve been having a hard time lately. I guess I’m depressed, but maybe I’m just burned out. I feel like I need a break, but then when I think of getting away, I get panicky. Sometimes I want nothing more than to extricate myself from the sticky embraces of my children, but then when I’m away from them for even a few minutes, I miss them so much I can hardly breathe.

I know a break for me would benefit all of us. The last time I went out without the kids was almost a month ago. A friend took me out to lunch followed by a visit to the communal baths at Kabuki Springs and Spa. My friend’s husband and children met up with Jack, JJ, and The Peanut, so I knew that everyone was having a great time in my absence. Nevertheless, as soon as I started driving away from our house, I felt a wave of sadness crash over me. And even though I spent a relaxing afternoon in the company of someone I really like, I couldn’t wait to see Jack and the kids.

But that’s exactly what I needed. When I got home, I got the full-on rock star greeting that Jack gets every evening when he gets back from work. I hugged and kissed everyone as if I’d been gone for a month. I played with the kids, read them books, and put them to bed without feeling resentful or taxed. Then I snuggled in with Jack and thoroughly enjoyed just being at home. And this feeling of goodwill and happiness lasted all through the next day. I was able to be present in a way that I often am not: instead of watching the clock, I savored each moment for what it was. Even the most mundane of tasks seemed joyful. The children definitely picked up on my mood: both were perfectly behaved and delightful all day long.

So why do I find it so hard to take time out for myself? This weekend I’d decided I was going to attend a yoga class for the first time in over a year. I’d been looking forward to it for days. But at the last minute, I bailed. Jack was making pancakes, everyone was still in their jammies, and the house seemed so warm and cozy. Even though I knew that I’d come back from class feeling refreshed and energized, I couldn’t bring myself to walk out the door.

I think I need someone to kick my ass a little. I need someone to remind me that when I take time for myself, I’m a better mother, a better wife, and a better me.

Time to lay off those nature programs

Conversation in the car on the way home from school:


JJ: I was a chameleon today at school.

Me: I know, I saw you.

JJ: I was a male chameleon.

Me: Oh, really?

JJ: Yes. See these bright colors? This is how I attract females.

Me: Oh?

JJ: I mated with two females today.

Me: …. Oh. Really?

JJ: Yes. With E. and S.

So that’s what they were doing behind the playstructure.

This woman's work

I made my neighbor cry the other day.

I feel like such an insensitive jackass. The last thing I wanted to do was make her feel bad, but I didn’t think about what I was saying before the words left my mouth. This seems to be happening a lot lately.

Our neighbors have two children almost the exact same ages as JJ and The Peanut. It would be the ideal situation for playdates and childcare swaps, but both parents work and the kids are in full-time daycare. We do get together often on weekends, though, and it’s nice to be able to spontaneously call each other up. Neither of our families is big on planning ahead, so we’re compatible in that way.

This weekend, the mother (I’ll call her R.) came over with her kids. We were talking about the home daycare in which both of her children were enrolled since they were babies. On her recommendation, I’ve been sending The Peanut there for a few hours one day a week so I can work at JJ’s preschool. The daycare is just a few blocks from our houses, and the woman who runs it (J.) is very competent, warm, and flexible. The Peanut, who has very strong opinions about everything and is a bit of a misanthrope, absolutely loves J. and has a great time at her house.

But lately R. has been worried about her son. Apparently, J. told R. that her son has been biting the other kids. I was surprised to hear this because JJ and I always hang out for a long time when we pick The Peanut up from J.’s house, and I’ve never seen any indication of aggression on R.’s son’s part. In fact, almost every time I visit, R.’s son is either being picked on by the other kids or he’s sobbing. I mentioned this to R., and she burst into tears. “I just can’t bear for him to be unhappy,” she cried.

I realize this isn’t my fault. R. has every right to know that her son isn’t happy in his daycare situation, but maybe I should have been more tactful about it. R. has a very high-powered career, and a recent promotion has meant longer hours and a hell of a lot of travel. For some reason, it never occurred to me that she might feel bad about this. I know she adores her kids, but I also know that she’s not someone who would be happy staying home with them. And I always thought she was okay with what that meant: that her children spend a lot of time in the care of other people.

If you told me 10 years ago that I would be a stay-at-home mother, I would have laughed in your face. I never thought I wanted children, period. It was a big shock to realize that I would do anything to stay home with my kids. I know I’m not the world’s best mother—far from it—but if I’m going to fuck up my kids, I want to do it my way.

Every woman gets to make her own choices. There’s no “right way” to live your life or raise your kids. If a woman is unhappy staying at home, her children are going to suffer the effects of her resentment and bitterness. Of course, not every family gets to choose; these days, staying home with your kids is a luxury. But those of us who are lucky enough to have options have to weigh them carefully.

I don’t want R. to think that I’m judging her. Hell, she’s the major breadwinner in their family, so if anyone should stay home with the kids, it’s her husband. But there’s no “should” about it, and that’s what I hope she understands.

Is this a bad sign?

I wonder if signing JJ up for a cooperative nursery school was a mistake.

There are so many great things about this particular school. The director and teachers are fantastic, the curriculum is wonderful, and the place is such a good fit for JJ. And I really do enjoy spending one afternoon a week working with the kids. I love observing JJ interacting with other kids, learning new things, and being challenged in ways I never thought to challenge him.

But there are definite drawbacks. We had our first “Parent Communication/Education Meeting” a couple of weeks ago. I was actually looking forward to the education component of these meetings, but the reality was an ass-numbing three hours that stretched well past my bedtime. By 9 pm, I was yawning so hard I thought my jaw would crack. Fortunately, we only meet once a month. I think I can probably handle that.

I also am having second thoughts about my school job. Slacker that I am, I chose the easiest possible job: I am a “cut-out person.” I cut out various paper shapes for projects. This requires no thought whatsoever and can be accomplished in the evenings after the children are asleep. The other jobs are so much more involved and time consuming, I have absolutely no right to complain. But I already hate it.

Last night, I was cutting out about 5,000 paper lion masks when Jack plopped down next to me with a bowl of chips and a beer. “Mind if I join you?”

“Not at all,” I replied. “You can even help.”

“I am helping,” he said around a mouthful of guacamole. “I’m keeping you company.” Silence. “Besides, we don’t have any more scissors.”

“Yes we do.”

“I don’t know where they are.”

“I do.” Silence. “I’ll even get them for you.” More silence. “Um…hey. I got some new slutty lingerie.”

“Where did you say those scissors were?”

You think you know yourself so well. You’re a woman of absolute integrity, a woman who only gives her love selflessly.

Then you have children, and you find yourself bartering sexual favors in exchange for lion masks.

I am a shameless whore.

All right, who stuck a quarter in him?

When JJ was born, our friends called him The Buddha Baby. At birth, he came out with his eyes wide open and looked at the world in silent amazement. As an infant, he was chubby, sweet, and amazingly mellow. I carted him around with me everywhere: restaurants, hair appointments, doctors’ offices. We did mom-and-baby yoga together, and while all the other babies were either screaming or sleeping, he would just gaze beatifically up at the ceiling fans.

Even as a toddler, he was cautious and quiet. He would sit for hours, playing with a stick. Getting him to walk anywhere required an exhausting amount of cajoling and begging. I was concerned that he wasn’t active enough, that he was doomed to be a couch potato.

I needn’t have worried. Something has happened to my formerly placid child. Suddenly, he is a cyclone of activity. The boy who used to yell at guests, “Stop climbing on the coffee table! Don’t stand on the chair! That’s not safe!” is literally bouncing off the furniture. Talk about boy energy: this kid never stops moving.

What the hell happened? Is it school? Hormones? A developmental stage? I am worn out chasing after him, reminding him to stop squirming, hauling him off the furniture, and scraping him off the ground when he falls.

I am way too old for this job.

Ten things I love about Jack

1. He is hilarious. JJ says he is “the funniest man in the world.”

2. He doesn’t care about money or material goods.

3. He can fix things.

4. He is incredibly loyal.

5. He has beautiful hands.

6. He is unflaggingly supportive of everything I do.

7. He loves flying kites.

8. He works tirelessly to help other people.

9. He would do anything for me and the kids. Anything.

10. He is my best friend.

Happy birthday, gorgeous

I woke up a couple of days ago with an ominous sore spot at the tip of my chin. When palpated gently, it felt pretty much like a pea. I knew I was in trouble when it started turning red. Within 24 hours, it had turned into a pimple the size of Mt. Vesuvius.

Now, I realize that in the grand scheme of things, this is a very minor injustice. But come on: tomorrow is my 38th birthday. If I’m going to have the skin of a 16-year-old, should I not also have her nubile thighs and flat stomach?

Hey, I’m kidding. I wouldn’t go back to being 16 years old if you paid me a million dollars. And for the most part, I’m happy with my almost-38-year-old body. It’s done a lot for me, after all. It ran two marathons, birthed and breastfed two babies, and put up with years of self-hatred and abuse with a minimum of protest.

There are a few things I wouldn’t mind trading in. My bum foot, for example. I’m sick of limping around in hideous shoes. I’m not thrilled about my bleeding gums, either. And this pimple is an absolute outrage. Otherwise, I’m okay with it. I feel like I’ve earned my wrinkles, grey hair, and drooping breasts.

Tomorrow I’m going to celebrate being alive, healthy, and 38 years old. I’m going to go for a walk on the beach, cuddle with my kids, eat a lot of birthday cake, and have sex with my husband. I may be crazy, but at least I know when I’ve got a good thing going.

Then again, someone please hit fast forward

You know the sentimental crap I posted earlier today? I take it all back. I’m sending them both to boarding school as soon as possible.

When The Peanut and I picked JJ up, he threw a huge shitfit. Screaming, stomping, carrying on: “I don’t want to go home! I want to stay here forever! I’m not leaving! I’m so angry, I’m turning into a bad guy!” The preschool director came over and pronounced solemnly, “I think he’s very tired.” Um, no shit. If I hadn’t had The Peanut in the sling, I would have hauled him out of there so fast his ass would have been smoking. As I was trying to calm JJ down, another mother came over and told me I was on the verge of poking The Peanut’s eye out with a stick I was holding because JJ wanted to bring it home. I know this woman was just trying to save The Peanut from being blinded, but I kind of wanted to slap her.

Not my shining-est parenting hour, that’s for goddamn sure.

Since we got home, both children have been behaving like lunatics. Screaming, crying, clinging to me, squabbling with each other, driving me to drink. I realize they’re both overtired and overwhelmed by the new routine, but Jesus Christ, someone please come get them. Now.

I think I hate preschool.

It all passes too quickly

Everyone tells you these early years will pass in a heartbeat, but when you’re snowed under with diapers and breastfeeding and separation anxiety and potty training, you don’t believe it. You can’t imagine a time when you won’t be overwhelmed by the needs of others, when you’ll actually long for sticky kisses and tiny hands clinging to your legs.

Today was JJ’s first real day of preschool. I think I’m in shock.

Most everyone we know started preschool last fall. For us, it really wasn’t meant to be. First we moved to a new town and didn’t want to further disrupt his life by starting school. Then The Peanut was born and JJ had a hard time adjusting. He wanted nothing more than to be a baby: “Carry me, Mommy! Babies can’t walk.” “I can’t use the potty, I’m a baby.” Prying him away from me would have required heavy machinery; preschool was out of the question.

In the spring, JJ decided he didn’t need to be a baby anymore. We found a great school with a slot open. JJ loved it. We loved it. The week before he was supposed to start, a giant mudslide closed the road between our house and the school. What was previously a 10-minute drive became a one-hour commute. Each way. Talk about the universe trying to send you a message.

So we decided to wait until summer. We enrolled JJ in a five-week program at the local cooperative nursery school. I had already decided that there was no way in hell I’d do a co-op for the school year, but I thought five weeks would be manageable. Besides, it was a program all about bugs, with which JJ is absolutely obsessed. How could we possibly pass that up?

The school turned out to be fabulous. We found The Peanut a great childcare situation for the one day a week I had to teach, and despite my concerns about her separation anxiety, she adjusted quickly. JJ had a fantastic time—and so did I. So did The Peanut, in fact.

When the road reopened, we briefly considered sending JJ to the first school, but the threat of future mudslides was too scary. Then two other schools we’d been waitlisted for suddenly had slots open up. I agonized for a week or so before deciding there was really only one choice.

So here I am, a co-op parent. We had our orientation meeting last night and I drove home in a daze. It’s going to be a shitload of work—work that includes fundraising, something I hate more than going to the dentist. But when JJ woke up at 6:00 this morning because he was too excited to sleep, I knew we’d made the right decision.

When The Peanut and I dropped him off at school, JJ ran straight to the play-doh table and struck up a conversation with a friend. I watched him for a few minutes and marveled at how confident and mature he seemed. When I went over to say good-bye, he was clearly surprised I was still there. “Oh! Bye, Mama.”

My sweet little boy, I can’t believe how grown up you are.

Shades of my former self

I went to the dentist yesterday afternoon. I’d been dreading the appointment for weeks. In fact, I was originally scheduled for mid-July, but I canceled because I just couldn’t bear the thought of it.

I know a lot of people hate dental appointments. Some are afraid of pain, others shy from the shrill sound of the drill. I don’t mind those things so much. What I really dislike is being reminded of my past.

Sixteen years of bulimia didn’t leave any obvious mark on my body. Except in my mouth. My teeth are a disaster, my gums a bloody nightmare. Most of the time I can forget about it, but those thrice-yearly dental appointments bring all that misery flooding back in vivid detail. I’ve spent literally thousands of dollars to repair my cracked front teeth and graft my receding gums, and now my dentist tells me that the enamel on my molars is so thin that just chewing my food is wearing it away. Nearly five years of pregnancy and breastfeeding haven’t helped, either: my gums are dissolving like cotton candy.

There’s not much to be done while I’m still nursing. For now, I just go in for a cleaning and checkup every four months. The hygienist shakes her head as she checks my gum pockets. “Well, at least they’re still stable,” she says grimly. And I taste regret, bitter as bile in the back of my throat.

For the most part, I’ve forgiven myself for all those years spent with my head in the toilet. I know that bulimia wasn’t a conscious choice, that it was a (admittedly unhealthy) way of coping with painful emotions and experiences. I hated my feelings of powerlessness and anger and sadness, so I stuffed them down with food and then purged them. I loathed my body, so I mercilessly starved it and flogged it with exercise. I wanted to whittle myself down to the bone, pure and clean. But hunger and emotion kept reappearing no matter how hard I tried to extirpate them.

In the midst of this ugliness, some part of me recognized that I was in hell. I reached out to Jack and then sought professional help. It took three years of therapy (with my wonderful psychiatrist R. and in an eating disorders group), a spectacularly humiliating breakdown at work, and a brief stint in a mental hospital before I was finally free. Recovery was the hardest thing I ever did, but it was well worth every tear I shed and every penny I spent.

And yet it’s not over. Once I stop nursing, I’ll probably need crowns on my molars and new gum grafts. That’s more money we won’t have for our family, and that makes me sick. It’s not like we’ll lose our house or our children will go without food, but I still feel guilty. I hate being reminded of the person I once was. Even though in my heart of hearts I know she was in terrible pain, I can’t help but feel that she was selfish and stupid.

I need to let go of this. I can’t freak out every four months for the rest of my life. Somehow, I need to find the strength to forgive my former self, to embrace her and tell her that everything is going to be okay.

She'll always be our baby

Conversation in the car the other day:

JJ: What’s The Peanut drinking?

Me: Milk.

JJ: No, no. What’s in her sippy cup?

Me: Uh…milk.

JJ: (Voice quivering) But she’s a baby! Babies nurse, they don’t drink milk from a cup!

Me: Oh! Well, she still nurses, but now she can drink milk from a cup, too. She’s a big girl now.

JJ: (Bursts into tears)

Me: What’s the matter?

JJ: (Sobbing) But she can’t be a big girl! She’s my baby! I need her to be my baby!

Me: Oh, honey. You know what? The Peanut will always be your baby. Even when she’s grown up, she’ll still be your baby sister.

Overheard later that day:

JJ: Peanut, I love you.

Peanut: Dah!

JJ: You’re my sweet baby. And you know what? You’ll always be my baby.

We will never leave this house again

Those of you with three or more children, how the hell do you do it? Specifically, how do you ever go anywhere? I’d really like to know, because I can barely manage with two. Before The Peanut was mobile, it was easy: I’d just pop her into the sling and chase JJ around. But now that she’s walking running at top speed, it’s a different story.

A couple of days ago, we went to Ryder Park in San Mateo. It’s a fantastic place with lots of room for running around, brand-new playground equipment, and an area with sparkling plumes of water that shoot up into the air when you step on a sensor. Kind of like sprinklers, only prettier.

We went with my friend K and her son Q, who is exactly the same age as JJ. The setup couldn’t have been any more ideal: K and Q picked up JJ in the morning while The Peanut was napping so that he could get out of the house earlier. Then when The Peanut woke up, she and I headed out to join them.

K is an ubermom who never ceases to amaze me. She has boundless energy and is able to multitask like nobody’s business. With the two of us watching three kids, it should have been a cakewalk. And I guess it was, but I still felt like we were on the brink of a major catastrophe the entire time.

Keeping The Peanut out of trouble is a full-time job. When she isn’t cramming disgusting things in her mouth (this time it was an ancient peach pit she found under the picnic table), she’s making a beeline for danger. I really can’t take my eyes off her for more than a couple of seconds. JJ is very good about following rules, but like any three-and-a-half-year-old, he does get distracted easily, so I can’t let him run completely wild.

This would be a much more interesting story if some huge disaster had occurred, but I’m happy to report that the outing was uneventful. We did manage to keep The Peanut from offing herself. JJ wandered off at one point, but I caught up to him before he was lost forever. Still, it was far from the relaxing outing I was hoping for. I was ready to tear my hair out by the time we left.

I realize that I have it pretty easy. Many of you have more than two kids, or have children who need constant supervision. So how do you manage going to the playground? Or the zoo? Or any place that isn’t completely contained?

Sometimes I think I’m just not cut out for this job.

O Sister, Where Art Thou?

Once upon a time, there were two little girls. Not princesses—this isn’t a fairy tale—just ordinary little girls. But then again, fairy tales always have happy endings, don’t they?

So. Princesses then.

The princesses lived in a bleak, unhappy kingdom. The Queen was a raging sun that threatened to consume everyone and everything around her. The King was a cold, rocky planet whose orbit was too distant to reach. Any love the royal couple may once have felt for one another was long gone. Their hatred was a dark miasma hanging over the kingdom, obscuring any hope of happiness.

The Littlest Princess was heartbreakingly beautiful, as littlest princesses almost always are. Her eyes were the deep blue of pansies, her hair like spun gold. She was graceful and lithe, with a smile that shone like a beacon in the dark.

The Eldest Princess was not nearly as lovely. She was clever, but she was also sharp tongued and jealous of her sister’s beauty. Although she loved the Littlest Princess above all else, her envy manifested itself in a thousand small unkindnesses. Still, she vowed to protect her sister and keep her safe.

The princesses were torn between mother and father, fire and ice. They huddled together as the Queen raged and seethed and the King became colder and more distant. As best she could, the Eldest Princess kept her vow and took care of The Littlest Princess while their parents’ mutual hatred rocked the Bleak Kingdom’s very foundations.

Eventually, The kingdom cracked under the strain, and the Queen and King went their separate ways. At first the princesses were relieved. But without the royal couple’s anger to anchor them, the princesses began to drift.

Then the Eldest Princess met a handsome prince. Perhaps the Prince saw something in her that no one had seen before, or perhaps his love made her truly beautiful. In any case, they soon wed and made their own kingdom, which was not bleak or unhappy in the least.

The Littlest Princess had many suitors, but most treated her cruelly. Finally, she met her own prince, who whisked her far away, across the ocean. Both princesses were busy with their lives, so the Eldest Princess didn’t worry much when she heard from her sister less and less often.

The years passed, and the Eldest Princess had two children of her own: a princeling and a baby princess, both with clear blue eyes and spun-gold hair. As she watched the love between them grow, she realized how much she missed her own sister. But when she finally reached out, she discovered that the Littlest Princess and her prince had disappeared.

Then one day, the Littlest Princess sent her sister a message. Princesses don’t have e-mail, of course; she wrote it on a lock of her own hair, which she tied around the leg of a white seagull. The seagull flew day and night until it reached The Eldest Princess, who read:

I love you so much I think my heart might explode. Every day all the time. Even if you have no way of knowing it, I hope you somehow do.

A cold splinter of fear pierced the Eldest Princess’s heart. She tried to imagine what dire fate had befallen the Littlest Princess. Was she the victim of some dark enchantment? Had her prince turned out to be an evil ogre who kept her locked away?

The Eldest Princess decided to mount a Quest to save her sister. But as she polished her armor and her sword, a terrible thought occurred to her: perhaps the Littlest Princess had chosen her exile. Perhaps she wished nothing more than to flee from the horrors of The Bleak Kingdom—one of those horrors being the Eldest Sister herself.

Of course, this isn’t really a fairy tale, and there is no happy ending. Not yet, anyway. The Eldest Princess remains frozen in indecision. Should she mount her Quest? Or is that exactly what the Littlest Princess fears most?

So instead, the Eldest Princess dips her quill into her inkwell and lets her words unfurl into the aether. She hopes that somehow, somewhere, the Littlest Princess is safe and happy. She hopes that her sister knows how much she loves her. She hopes that one day they will be reunited. Until then, she watches her own children play, and her heart contracts with loneliness and love.

Summertime Chez Crazy

I know it’s miserably hot for much of the country, but this heat wave has been heavenly for us coastal folk. We’re usually wrapped in a thick blanket of fog all summer, so it’s nice to actually catch a glimpse of that fiery orb in the sky. (What’s that thing called again?)

I’ve been feeling guilty about not doing enough art projects, but I also want to take full advantage of the summery weather while it lasts. So today I stripped the kids down and got out the paints.



Come hang out at the House of Crazy before summer is over. Clothing is optional.

Tastes just like chicken

We are hanging out in the backyard. The children are playing in the grass, I am daydreaming in the sun. I’m imagining that I’m on a beach far away, listening to the waves lapping against the shore.

From time to time, JJ has a question for me. “Mommy, can hummingbirds swim?” “How does gravity work?” “Why are leaves green?” I answer distractedly as I doze.

“Mommy, do you want to see the creepiest spiderweb in the world?”

“In a minute,” I reply. The sun is warm on my face. The breeze is fragrant with the scent of pine trees.

Then a scream shreds the peaceful afternoon. “AAAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaahhhh! She’s eating it! Mommy, SHE'S EATING THE SPIDERWEB!”

The earth stops spinning. Time stands still. I leap from my chair, sunglasses and flipflops flying. I am running in slow motion as my son tears around in circles, screaming delightedly. The Peanut gazes curiously at us as she slurps up The Creepiest Spiderweb in The World like spaghetti.

I reach her just as the frantically squirming spider is about to touch her rosebud lips. I knock the spider to the ground, scoop The Peanut up, and haul ass into the house. We will not set foot outside for the rest of the day.

Tonight, after the children are in bed, I will relate this story to Jack. He will shake his head sadly. “When I hear stories like this, I just have to ask myself, ‘Where was their mother?’”

Survival mode

Today my only goal is to make it through the day with all three of us alive. I fear that I may be aiming too high.

The Peanut is going through something right now. I have no idea what it is, but she isn’t sleeping and she’s full of angst. Last night she was up at least every hour. I kind of lost track after midnight, but I know I was in with her a lot, and Jack said he was, too. I wish we could have just brought her into our bed for the night, but she can’t sleep with us. As soon as she’s in our room, she thinks it’s party time.

So today she’s completely exhausted, but of course she can’t nap. I finally put her in her crib because she was just lying on the floor, sobbing as if her heart would break. I tried rocking her and nursing her and singing to her and walking her around the house. Nothing I do makes her feel better.

I’m exhausted, too. And I feel like a shitty mom. JJ really needs to get out and run around, but the idea of getting dressed, packing up our shit, and then hanging out half-asleep at the playground makes me want to shoot myself.

I know it’s not going to kill anyone if we just sit home in our pajamas and watch videos all day, but I don’t feel good about it. JJ's going to be bouncing off the walls by this afternoon. I want to go back to bed.

Kiss my ass, FlyLady

Dear FlyLady ,

When I first subscribed to your e-mail list, I thought it might help light a fire under my as…er, I mean Franny…

No, wait. I mean ASS. What are you, twelve years old? I am a grown woman. I do not have a Franny. I have a big, juicy, womanly ASS.

See, that’s why I’m writing. You and your 1950s Good Girl mentality make me want to burn my bra and swear like a sailor. When I read your saccharine Musings, I feel like hurling all over my laptop. The Testimonials of your brainwashed minions flood my inbox, filling my brain like the screeching of a thousand hysterical birds.

But it’s your cheerful reminders that really drive me insane. WHERE ARE YOUR SHOES? Where do you think my shoes are, crazy lady? By the door. I am not going to wear my goddamn shoes in the house. Don’t you realize I have enough vacuuming to do without tracking pine needles all over my living room? DRINK YOUR WATER! I am not going to set a fucking timer to remind me to drink water every 15 minutes, you obsessive-compulsive psychopath. A LOAD A DAY! You seriously think doing a single load of laundry each day is going to put a dent in the tower of dirty laundry that threatens to topple over and smother my husband in his sleep? You obviously don’t have young children.

I’m sure you’re thinking the obvious solution is for me to unsubscribe to your e-mail list. That’s exactly what my husband suggested when he caught me flipping off my computer screen with both hands, screaming, “Swish and swipe THIS, motherfucker!” But you know, I kind of like the way your e-mails get my blood boiling. It makes me feel alive. I think I love to hate you, FlyLady. And perhaps that’s not such a bad thing.

So pucker up, buttercup. Lay one on my couch-lying, messy house-living, bonbon-eating Franny.

FLYing in California,
Ms. Crazy

Blue Funk

It’s been a rough week, mental-health-wise.

Jack has had to go in to work early this week, which means neither of us has gotten to go running most mornings. I think exercise is one of the keys to stabilizing my mood; when I don’t do it, I feel especially shitty.

Another key is adult companionship. It’s ironic: even though I constantly have little ones climbing all over me, I’m desperately lonely. I haven’t gone to the bathroom by myself in over a year, you’d think what I’d really long for is time alone. But I’m so starved for real conversation, I’m tempted to ask the mailman in for coffee.

The kids and I have had plans every day this week, but most of them didn’t involve me getting to talk to another adult. The one day we had friends come over, JJ had a hard-core freakout that culminated in him sobbing, “I need a nap, Mama!” This is such a rare event these days that I shooed our friends out the door, even though I was really enjoying hanging out with another mama. I did get an hour-long nap myself, but what I really needed was more grown-up time.

When I’m lonely, I start feeling like everything is pointless. Why vacuum the floors? They’ll just get dirty again. Ditto for cleaning bathrooms, doing laundry, (insert mundane household task here). The result is that the house is a disaster, and that makes everything worse.

I also find myself eating nonstop. Believe me, I know what that’s all about: trying to fill up the void inside myself. It’s not really a full-on binge, it’s just comfort eating. Of course, it doesn’t really help, and since I haven’t been exercising regularly, I’m afraid I’m going to bust out of my pants in short order.

And you know, I really miss Jack. He’ll be working this weekend, too, and that’s sad. We need to make some plans to go out, just the two of us. We need to spend more time talking. We need to have more sex. A lot more sex.

Meanwhile, send a little virtual love my way. Write a comment so I know you’re out there. Maybe you’re lonely, too?

What's in a name?

I have neglected to mention one of the residents of the House of Crazy: my husband. Those of you who know me may be wondering when I got divorced and remarried. No, my husband’s name is not Jack. Nor are my children named JJ and The Peanut, in case you wanted to know.

My husband has always been incredibly supportive of me. Everyone deserves at least one person in her life who thinks she’s utterly fabulous; I’m so lucky to have him. When I first mentioned starting a blog, he was 100% behind the idea. But then I wrote my first post, and he kind of freaked out. “I’m not sure this blog thing is such a great idea. There are all sorts of weirdos out there, you know.”

It’s hard to argue with that, so we agreed that I’d give everyone pseudonyms. Personally, I’m more worried about my family or my in-laws stumbling across this blog than some random “weirdo.” I realize that this horrific event may still occur even if I attempt anonymity—in fact, it recently happened to a friend. But I’m trying not to worry about that. If I’m going to delve into my craziness, I’ve got to be able to talk smack about my relatives.

So then we had to come up with names. The Peanut was easy because, well, she's a peanut. My son was harder. We had a billion nicknames for him when he was a baby, but when he got older, he decided he hated all of them and only wanted to be called by his own name. (Which is actually a nickname, but please don’t tell him that.)

I told my husband he had to come up with his own pseudonym. He chose “Santiago,” which I rejected on the grounds that I would laugh my ass off every time I typed it. Picture if you will a man named Santiago. Now imagine the exact opposite of that, and you’ll have my husband.

None of his other offerings was any better, so I suggested “Jack.” Jack’s a standup-kind-of-guy name. You could have a few beers with Jack, go to a ballgame with Jack. You could even ask Jack to help you move. Jack’s the kind of guy you could marry and have kids with. So Jack it is.

I got sick of trying to come up with a pseudonym for my son, so I settled on JJ. For Jack, Jr. Or Julius Jingleheimerschmidt. Your choice. Yeah, I know it’s not very creative, but too bad. We had a tough enough time coming up with his real name.

Now I suppose I should come up with a name for myself. “Stephaniepoo” is out. (Sorry, Green!) Any other ideas?

Objects at rest, objects in motion

I’ve experienced this before. The clinical term for it is depression, although to me it feels more like inertia. I sleepwalk through the motions of the day without really being present. If I could, I’d crawl back into bed and pull the covers over my head. But with two small children to look after, that’s simply not an option.

There are things I can do to overcome this inclination towards stasis. Going running first thing in the morning seems to help energize me. Making lists sometimes makes the mundane tasks I need to do seem more manageable. If I get started on a task, I can usually keep going. If not, the urge to burrow deep inside myself is overwhelming.

The last time I struggled with inertia, I was working at a job I hated and battling an eating disorder. It took three grueling years of therapy and a brief stint in a psychiatric hospital for me to emerge a well-adjusted, healthy person. Then I got pregnant with my son, and I worried that I’d plunge back into depression. Quite the contrary: that particular cocktail of pregnancy and post-partum hormones made me happier than I’ve ever been.

So imagine my surprise when, after my daughter was born, I realized I was absolutely miserable. What triggered my depression this time? A different mixture of hormones, no doubt, but also sleep deprivation, a three-year-old who was having difficulty adjusting, and my own feelings of ambivalence. Here we’d gotten into a nice groove with JJ, and then we had to go fuck it up by having another baby. A baby who would not sleep. Who cried constantly. Who couldn’t settle no matter what we did.

It took some time, but The Peanut eventually did settle into the most fabulous baby girl in the world. And JJ not only came to terms with sharing his mama, but grew to love his sister more than I ever thought possible. And when The Peanut actually started sleeping, I thought we were home-free. So why was I still so unhappy?

When The Peanut was nine months old, I made an appointment with R., the psychiatrist who had helped me overcome my previous depression and eating disorder. R. agreed that this bout of misery was probably triggered by the birth of my daughter. Having a three-year-old and a baby is crazy-making enough, and largely due to my own inertia, I had absolutely no childcare lined up. R. declared my lack of support “an untenable situation” and urged me to change that. In the meantime, I agreed to try Zoloft.

Three months later, I am beginning to move again. I have fewer bad days and feel more like my old self. And since my old self used to write, here I am. I’m not ready to resume writing for hire yet, but reporting from The House of Crazy seems doable. Maybe in the process I’ll figure out who I am besides Mama. Because honestly, I’m not quite sure any more.