Just shoot me already

My Mother the Crazy Hippie ran a pretty lax household, but one rule was etched in stone: no toy guns, ever. No pointing fingers, no crafting weapons out of cardboard, no squirt guns. And I suppose it worked, because I grew up with a passionate hatred of guns. My deep and abiding love for Jack Bauer notwithstanding, I had every intention of raising my children the same way.

And then I had a boy.

My mother had it pretty fucking easy if you ask me. Oh sure, we put her through hell during our estrogen-saturated years of adolescence angst. Just ask her—she’ll be happy to tell you all about it, in gory detail. But banning guns from a boyless household is kind of like forbidding my husband to wear my panties. (No, really, it is.)

Yesterday marked my first encounter with gunplay, preschool-style. I was working at JJ’s preschool when I noticed a gang of four-year-old boys furtively aiming rakes at each other behind the playstructure. I sidled up to them to see what was going on, and they scattered across the playground. A little later, I saw them at it again, and this time I caught the words “soldier” and “kill.” I honestly felt a little bit sick.

Those of you with brothers or sons are no doubt laughing your asses off right now. I dramatically reported the preschool gun episode to Jack at dinner, and he looked at me like I had just disembarked from my spaceship. “Um, yeah. That’s pretty much all we ever played when I was little.”

JJ observed the whole gun posse from the sidelines. I’m pretty sure he had no clue what they were doing, but his interest was clearly piqued. After a few minutes, he ran up to me and told me he was Dorothy (from the Wizard of Oz) and he was going to use his magic shoes to protect me.

I’m sure I’ll be staring down the barrel of a gun any day now, but for now, I'll hang on to my ruby slipper-wearing bodyguard.

This chemical imbalance in my brain is driving me crazy *

I’m sure I’ve mentioned several times that I’m taking Zoloft for my depression and anxiety. (I’m too lazy to look it up, but take my word for it.) It’s helped me quite a bit, I think. Last week I noticed that my prescription was running out and I had no more refills, so I called my doctor and had her call the pharmacy for me. Then I promptly forgot all about it.

How did I not realize that I had missed a few doses? What can I say, I’m a complete ding-dong. I keep the bottle of pills next to my toothpaste so I remember to take them after I brush my teeth. When the pills ran out, I threw away the bottle. Out of sight, out of mind.

Until I started to flip out, that is. I’d been feeling a little off all weekend, but I chalked it up to having been quarantined with sick kids for several days. But yesterday it was hard to pretend nothing was wrong. First I bit Jack’s head off for no reason. “What is wrong with you?” he asked me. “Me?” I snapped back. “What the hell is wrong with you?” I left “motherfucker” off the end of that, but believe me, it was hanging there. By afternoon, I was climbing the walls and screaming at everyone who crossed my path.

I remembered my prescription just before the pharmacy closed. So now I’m back on track, although I’m still not feeling quite like my normal self. Although I’m no believer in the Cartesian theory of mind-body dualism, I’m still amazed that who I am is such a function of my brain biochemistry.

That shit just makes me lose my fucking mind! *


* Shamelessly stolen from my all-time favorite article in The Onion.

I'm on a roll here

Forget saving for retirement or even college—this therapy fund is going to suck us dry.

A couple of months ago, one of the Hot Cops lost a leg in a freak accident. (They may look like sex machines, but they can’t get their feet up over their heads. Sorry ladies.) There was much crying and wailing, then the tears were dried and the amputated limb was forgotten.

Until I found it behind my dresser the other day, that is. I pulled it out with a mock look of horror on my face. “AAIIEEEEEEEEE! IT’S A SEVERED LEG!” I howled. JJ cracked up, but The Peanut’s face collapsed in terror. “No! No! NONONONONONO,” she shrieked as she flew from the room in a blind panic.

Oh, to be a fly on the wall in her future psychiatrist’s office.

So much for Mother of the Year 2007

I used to think I was a pretty good parent. This was big stuff for me; I’d agonized for years over having children because I thought I’d be a complete fuckup. But then I had JJ and fell head over heels in love with him, and I realized that this was it: the most important and best job I’d ever have.

And we were so in sync, he and I. We were like perfectly matched dance partners from the very beginning. We nursed for 19 months, and it was wonderful. Then one day I thought to myself, “I’m done with this now,” and that evening he dropped his bedtime feeding. We were done in less than a month, and it was this beautiful, mutually respectful process.

That’s just one example of how easy my relationship has been with JJ. (Minus the horrendous potty training debacle of November 2006, but let’s never speak of that again.) I always told other parents that being JJ’s mother was a piece of cake because he was this easygoing, mellow, compliant child, but that was a total lie. What I really thought was I was this fantastic, understanding, patient, compassionate, mature mother with a heart of gold.

The Terrible Twos passed with hardly a tantrum. The Traumatic Threes? I barely broke a sweat. But Four? Four is kicking my ass. Four is serving me a huge slice of humble pie with ice cream on top. Yeah, laugh it up friends—I deserve it—but Four may be the death of me.

Why didn’t anyone warn me about Four? The mouthiness, the eye rolling, the know-it-all attitude. It’s like a warm-up to Thirteen, but I am not ready for Thirteen. How is it possible that this angelic child is suddenly pushing all my buttons with such alacrity? “How do birds poop, Mama?” “Pretty much like we do, but they have an opening called a cloaca instead of an anus.” (Eyeroll) ”I knew that already.”

I am so stunned by this kind of behavior, I don’t even know how to respond. I try to be patient and respectful, and then he comes out with this crap and I explode in a white rage. I’m turning into a yeller. I know it could be worse—I could be turning into a hitter—but I don’t want to be a yeller.

This morning I yelled at him for rolling his eyes and saying “Blah blah blah” at me. And then he cried and said, “I’m sorry, Mama,” and threw himself into my arms. And I thought to myself, I need someone to fire me now. Here is this little boy trying so desperately to grow up and become his own person, and he’s so vulnerable and tough and irritating and lovable, and then I just stomp his fragile psyche to a powder.

It’s hopeless, isn’t it? I guess I’ll just toss another twenty bucks in the therapy fund and pour myself a big glass of wine.

The Peanut Gallery

A friend asked me the other day what The Peanut is into these days. I nearly replied, “Absolutely everything. We really need to Peanut-proof the place,” but then I realized what she meant.

But still, the Peanut is into absolutely everything. Anything JJ can do, she’s bound and determined to try out herself. Here’s her current Top Ten list:

10. Baby dolls.

9. Riding her tricycle. (“Bike ‘day, Mama? Bike ‘day?”)

8. Trucks and trains.

7. Art projects—the messier, the better.



6. Stomping in puddles.

5. Dancing, singing, staging pratfalls, and performing magic tricks.

4. Purses, hats, cell phones, and shoes.

3. Toasting everyone at the dinner table with her cup of milk.

2. Ice cream. With sprinkles.

And now for The Peanut’s Number One Favorite Thing of All Time…

1. Her big brother.

Natural Consequences

I’ve learned an important lesson this week: if you eat your weight in peppermint bark, it’s highly probable that your pants will no longer fit over your gigantic ass.

This is what my parenting books refer to as “Natural Consequences,” and it’s supposed to be one of the most effective ways to teach your children how to behave.

Maybe the problem is that I’m not a child. Or maybe my mind lives in a Magic Fantasy World where I can cram pounds of peppermint bark down my gullet without gaining an ounce. My body, unfortunately, inhabits a different world entirely.

I’d like to blame this on someone else. I really would. I’ll work on figuring out who later. Right now I have to go hide in my bedroom and make a serious dent in my rapidly dwindling stash of peppermint bark.

Addendum

Or perhaps I should title this "I suck. Already."

Apparently #2 and 4 are mutually exclusive: I yelled at both children while posting about my New Year's goals.

2007 is off to a great start.

Happy New Year!

I don’t believe in New Year’s resolutions, if only because I have never kept one in my life. Instead, I set goals. I know, I know: semantics. But this way I don’t feel like a complete failure if I don’t meet them.

This year, I plan to work on the following:

1. Be a kinder, more compassionate person.

2. Write more.

3. Eat more mindfully, get some exercise every day, and generally take better care of myself.

4. Be more patient with my children.

What are you working on in 2007?