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?