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.