House of Crazy

On hiatus

2010-07-11T12:53:00.000-07:00

It has been more than a YEAR since I last posted. Not because nothing's been happening in my life, but because I've been too busy living it to write about it.

I'm still batshit crazy and I'm sure at some point I'll feel like writing about it, so I'm not going to shut this blog down. Meanwhile, I'm doing some work on my tortured psyche and eating issues, which you can read about here. I'd love your company on this new adventure of mine.

Happy trails, all.

Out of My Head

2009-05-17T13:19:00.000-07:00

I have been spending too much time inside my head of late. Jack is out of town right now, which means I need to work extra hard to stay engaged and present in my life.

JJ and The Peanut joined me in bed early this morning and we spent a leisurely hour reading, cuddling, and sipping coffee (or hot chocolate). The day dawned clear and unusually warm, so we ate a quick breakfast and headed for the beach.

It's not often that you can really hang out at our beach. Our coastal town is often shrouded in fog, and the winds off the ocean can be bitterly cold. But today it was perfect. We packed a bag full of sand toys, plastic dinosaurs, and snacks, found a perfect spot near some rocks and a stream, and had at it.

We built sand castles, tossed rocks in the stream, hunted for tadpoles, collected seashells and beach glass, ran shrieking from the foamy ocean waves, buried JJ's feet in the sand, staged an epic herbivores vs. carnivores battle, chatted with some other families, and breathed in the salt air.

Then we headed home for a bath, lunch, and popsicles. I think we'll spend the afternoon in the back yard, running through the sprinklers, identifying insects, and pulling weeds.

It's a very good day to be out of my head.

Glutton for Punishment?

2009-05-15T14:05:00.000-07:00

I have written before about our local cooperative nursery school, which JJ attended for a year when he was four and The Peanut is attending now. Mostly when I mention “The Co-op,” it’s to complain about how much work it entails for me. My responsibilities are as follows:

Working at the school one afternoon (three hours) per week
Being on call as “emergency parent” for one afternoon every six weeks
Performing a family “job” for the school (this year I've been putting together a monthly newsletter)
Performing a family job for the two fundraisers: a huge auction fundraiser in the spring and a smaller “trike-a-thon” in the fall (I fulfill this obligation by writing articles for our local paper)
Raising a minimum amount of money for each of these fundraisers
Completing eight “enhancement” hours, doing various needed projects
Completing and discussing parenting-related reading assignments
Attending regular parent education/information meetings

This is indeed a shitload of work, but the tradeoffs are that tuition is insanely cheap, the program is play based and wonderful, and there’s a built-in community of parents and children that makes all the work totally worthwhile.

Except recently I’ve been questioning whether it really is worthwhile. After two years at The Co-op, I am more than a little burned out. I remember feeling so lucky to be part of the school when JJ was there, enjoying my workday even more than I enjoyed having a few hours to myself. But this year has been different. Maybe it’s because JJ's school day begins at 8:30 and ends at 2:30, while The Peanut’s in the afternoon session (12:45 to 3:45), so I end up doing a ton of driving back and forth. Or maybe I’m just tired of all the volunteering and fundraising I’ve been doing for both kids’ schools and our school district. Or maybe I just want more time to myself. Whatever the case, a good deal of the shine has worn off.

And Jack’s burned out, too. Even though he isn’t nearly as involved as I am—not because he doesn't want to be, but because he has to work—he still does a lot. He fulfilled the bulk of our enhancement hours by building a shed, and he worked a shift for me when I was on jury duty. But probably what's most exhausting for him is listening to me bitch and moan and complain about The Co-op, especially after my workday. There is always drama of some sort, whether in the form of other parents who don’t do their jobs, children who don’t follow the rules, or just general craziness. Last week there were several deliberate tricycle crashes and a biting incident, and this week there was the little boy who crapped his pants—not that it was his fault or anything, but still: guess who ended up on cleanup duty?

So after much soul searching and discussion, Jack and I decided to look into another preschool option for the fall. The Peanut has one more year before kindergarten, and having her attend a program that doesn't require parent participation would allow me to do more of my own work instead of schlepping kids around all day. It was with this thought in mind that we visited our local Montessori preschool, assuming that it was basically a done deal.

Turns out it wasn’t. The school’s director is a pompous, pretentious ass whose main job seems to be pandering to parents who want their little darlings to read at a sixth-grade level before kindergarten. After parading several children out and having them read for us like performing dogs, he told us that The Peanut was “already behind” academically, but that he was certain that she was bright enough to catch up with the others.

As. If.

I don’t have a problem with parents who want their kids to be able to read, write, and do long division by the time they’re five years old, I just don’t happen to be one of those parents. In my opinion, a four-year-old has much more important work to do: playing with play dough, building with Legos, painting pictures, counting beans, putting together puzzles, stringing beads, riding tricycles around the play yard, making friends, gluing together collages, learning to negotiate with other children, chasing butterflies, creating and inhabiting elaborate imaginary worlds. If she happens to learn to read along the way, great…but if not, who the hell cares? She’s got plenty of other stuff she needs to be doing.

So it looks like we’re in for another year at The Co-op. Next time you catch me bitching about it, please remind me what the alternative is. Because when you’ve found the absolute best place for your child, it really is worth setting aside a little personal freedom for just one more year.

Besides, The Peanut will be in the morning session, so I’ll have much more time to complain about it here.

Amazing Grace

2009-05-10T06:54:00.000-07:00

I don’t believe in god or any higher power. Never have. My parents were both atheists, so I take my nonbelief for granted, like my blue eyes. So it might surprise you to learn that this is one of my very favorite songs:

Amazing grace, how sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me.
I once was lost, but now I’m found,
Was blind but now I see.

I don’t believe in grace, don’t believe in redemption. But if I did believe in such a thing, I know exactly what it would be. It would have blond curls and round blue eyes, a rippling laugh, soft cheeks, round arms flung around my neck, sticky kisses, the words “I love you, Mama” breathed in my ear.

And all of this times two. Amazing grace, indeed.

Dead to Me

2009-03-05T01:35:00.000-08:00

The other day, The Peanut and I were having a serious conversation about her dimples. “What are they for?” she wondered. “Why doesn’t anyone else in our family have them?”

“Your Aunt Jessie had dimples,” I told her.

Had. The word flew out of my mouth like a startled bird. The Peanut didn’t miss a beat, and was already chattering about another exciting topic: how JJ has a penis and she doesn’t.

But more than anything, I wanted to take that word back.

I’m sure my sister still has her sweet dimples. I’m sure her eyes are still the deep blue of pansies. It’s been years since I’ve seen her, but some things don’t change.

I like to think that if she called me tomorrow, it would be as if no time had passed. We’d still have that sisterly telepathy, that special bond I’ve never had with anyone but her. We’d marvel that we still share the same hairstyle and the same wardrobe, fashion choices made in parallel, independent of time or geography. She’d utter a well-worn phrase, and we’d both laugh until we choked.

I’m afraid I’m letting her go. Because that is what you eventually do, whether you want to or not, when someone you love is gone.

My Own Brand of Crazy

2009-01-28T13:23:00.000-08:00

I woke up this morning at 4 am. My mind was whirling with thoughts and worries, none of which warranted such an early wakeup. After staring at the ceiling for half an hour, I surrendered to that maelstrom of neuronal activity. I ran on the treadmill, finished the newsletter for The Peanut's preschool, returned some emails, emptied the dishwasher, made JJ's lunch, and sauteed leeks to get a jump-start on dinner. When Jack staggered blearily out of the bedroom, I handed him a fresh cup of coffee and resumed straightening up the living room.

Like all objects, I exist in one of two states: at rest or in motion. When I'm at rest—inert—I can barely summon the energy to get out of bed. I'll go for days without a shower; it just seems like too much effort, and the thought of having to take another shower in a day or two makes me want to weep. What's the point, I wonder, when I'll just get sweaty and gross again? The simple activities of everyday life seem pointless and exhausting.

But when I'm in motion, I cannot rest. Sleep eludes me. I perform tasks at a frenzied pace. I revel in ticking off the most boring items on my to-do list. Shower? Check. Scrub the shower tiles with a tootbrush? Check. Make gigantic pot of vegetable soup? Check. I plow through my day at an inexorable pace, unable to pause to catch my breath.

I have wondered before if I have bipolar disorder, although my brilliant psychiatrist assures me that I don't. I trust her, she knows what she's talking about. But it's hard to come to terms with the thought that my "energetic periods" are most likely how most people feel and function on most days. Not the sleepless part, of course; I attribute that to anticipating the inevitable crash.

And that's partly what fuels my frenzy: the realization that my state of being in motion can't continue indefinitely. How long will I have this time before I stutter to a halt? If I can just cram in a few more things before I lapse back into inertia, our household can coast for a while on the fruits of my labors. Healthy meals prepared in advance and frozen in careful portions can be thawed and reheated—although sometimes just operating the microwave seems like a Herculean effort. Bills paid ahead of time won't haunt me when I don't have the energy to lick an envelope, let alone write a check.

These days my periods of total inertia seem to strike less often and last for days instead of weeks. But strike they still do, with the same crushing force. When that wave of exhaustion and hopelessness hits me, I have to give myself permission to do the best I can. And since love and attention can't be banked in neat portions along with healthy meals, that's where I have to focus my efforts. My kitchen sink overflows with dishes, the floor is littered with crumbs, my hair is a mess and I'm wearing the same yoga pants I've worn for the past two days. But JJ still makes it to school with a lovingly packed lunch; The Peanut gets to her dance class, and I'm there to watch her; we all snuggle on the couch and read book after book together. Love is the one thing I won't ever let slip through the cracks.

I just hope it's enough for them.

Scenes From My Marriage

2009-01-09T09:24:00.000-08:00

Jack and I wanted to watch a DVD last night, but the remote control had disappeared. We are the proud owners of the world's shittiest DVD player, which cannot be worked manually at all. (Unfortunately, we bought it new for 20 bucks after rebate, which was such an awesome deal that neither of us can bring ourselves to replace it.)

We tore apart the downstairs looking for the fucking remote. "I know it was down here this afternoon," I said as I tossed all the throw pillows off the couch. "The kids were watching The Electric Company, so I must have used it then."

"Maybe you took it upstairs," grumped Jack, who gets a little nuts when he can't find something.

"Maybe," I said doubtfully. "Or maybe one of the kids hid it. Did you look under the couch?"

"I looked under the couch 5,000 times," he snapped. "It's not there. It's not anywhere."

"I'll look upstairs," I offered. "Maybe I took it with me when I had to run upstairs to answer the phone."

"Yes, because once again, all the phones have mysteriously migrated upstairs." (Leaving all the phones upstairs is another one of my charming habits. Along with misplacing my keys, my purse, my library card. And the remote.)

Twenty minutes, I admitted defeat. "I don't know what I did with the fucking thing. I must have left it someplace weird."

Jack threw his hands up in the air. "It's lost forever."

"What do you mean, it's lost forever? It's still in the house."

"Not necessarily," said Jack ominously.

"What, you think it disappeared into extradimensional space?"

"No, I think my demented wife accidentally tossed it in the trash."

"Oh, that's nice. Real nice." Not for the first time, I cursed myself for having told him about the time I threw away my retainer when I was 11.

I managed to maintain my air of wounded dignity until Jack went to brush his teeth, and then furtively crept into the kitchen and peeked in the garbage. I have to confess I was surprised and a little disappointed that the remote wasn't there.

I asked JJ about it this morning. "Oh yeah, I saw it yesterday. It's under the couch."

And that's exactly where it was. Of course.

Image by jaqian used under the creative commons attribution license.

Cringe

2009-01-09T06:58:00.000-08:00

Cringe is one of my all-time favorite episodes of This American Life.

I think I'm the crab-walking guy. Or maybe Ira Glass on the set of M*A*S*H. Or maybe I've elevated cringe to a whole new level.

I fear I might be stuck in a permacringe.

Image by Peter Kaminski used under the creative commons attribution license.

Actually, call me the Queen of Dumbasses

2009-01-08T22:21:00.001-08:00

Those of you who read my last (now deleted) post know exactly what I mean.

All Hail the Queen!

Ch-ch-ch-changes

2009-01-07T11:13:00.000-08:00

It's been quite a while since I posted from the House of Crazy, which doesn't mean I'm not still batshit whacko. Believe me, I am.

Much has happened since September, some of which might even be worth noting:

• Despite his initial stress about first grade, JJ has settled in and is loving school. I may be a tad biased, but I have to say that he is the most brilliant, adorable, compassionate first-grade boy in the entire world.

• The Peanut is still enjoying preschool, although her enthusiasm has waned considerably. She's all about JJ and has zero interest in cultivating relationships with children her own age. The only kids I've seen her play with are older boys, which isn't too surprising. But I'm hoping she'll come out of her shell in the coming months.

• Jack has been seriously considering taking a job in Portland. Which would be cool, except I really love our house and community and don't want to leave. But he'd have much better job security, and as we're teetering on the brink of global economic collapse, that seems like a precious commodity to us both.

• And speaking of economic disaster, I was "furloughed" from my job a couple of weeks ago. We're incredibly lucky not to depend on my income -- we'll miss it, but it won't break us -- but it was still a bummer. So now I'm trying to figure out what to do with my life. Do I look for another job? Or work on my novel and see if something else falls into my lap? Right now I'm leaning towards the latter option, but we shall see.

• My mother and I "had words" a few months ago and she informed me that she was going to "cut me out of her life." A couple of days later, she emailed Jack and said she had no idea what she'd done that had upset me, but he was her last and only family connection, and she was frantic to hear back from him about the kids. The whole situation is disturbing on many different levels, and I worry that she is really losing her mind. But I finally realized that responding to her craziness wasn't helpful to either of us, and I made the very painful decision to not respond to her at all. For now, anyway. I hope she can find peace and happiness; I love her so much.

• My sister emailed me! Just once, but at least I know she's out there.

And that's about all there is to it. Or at least all I can remember; I either have a permanent case of Mommy Brain or early-onset dementia.

From The Peanut Gallery: First day of preschool

2008-09-04T13:19:00.000-07:00

On the car ride home, right before falling asleep: "I love preschool so much, I couldn't believe my ears."

Growing pains

2008-09-03T09:55:00.000-07:00

JJ started first grade last week, and the tears that have been shed since then could fill an ocean.

I thought this transition would be easy. After all, he went through kindergarten at the same school, he knows every single kid in his class, and the drill isn't that much different.

But it is different. Very different.

The day is longer. The work is harder. The expectations are higher. Recess is on the (gulp) Big Kids Playground.

And Mommy isn't there.

JJ has always been very attached to me. One of my closest friends (and the mother of JJ's future bride) once quipped that if JJ could climb back into my womb, he'd do it without a second thought. Truer words have never been spoken.

One of the biggest tear triggers has been The Peanut's stroller. We walk to school almost every morning, and both kids happily skip most of the way there. But inevitably, The Peanut gets tired and climbs into the stroller…and then the tears begin to flow.

"I want to ride in the stroller," JJ sobbed this morning. "I wish I were still little."

"I know," I said. "Sometimes it's hard growing up, isn't it?"

"But JJ," The Peanut said helpfully, "soon I'll be too big for the stroller, too."

"But you're little now," he retorted. "I miss being little. I miss being with Mommy."

And that's the big issue, I think. Each morning when we drop him off, there's a piece of paper at each child's place. At the top is printed "Me and My Family." The point is to draw a picture of your family, and every other child has been working on his picture for days. JJ's paper is still blank. Well, not totally blank: there are faint traces of circles and lines, erased and redrawn many times. This morning I asked him about it. "Are you having a hard time with your picture?"

He burst into tears. "I hate it. I hate this picture."

"Why, honey? Why do you hate it?"

"I just do. I hate it. And I hate school."

I don't understand it, and he can't find the words to explain it to me. Possibly he doesn't understand it himself. But those words "I hate school" cut me to the quick. One of the gifts I've worked hardest to give my children is a love of learning new things. Is school going to kill that love? Or is this just a temporary blip?

Please tell me it's a blip.

Hello, Spring

2008-03-11T11:06:00.000-07:00

In a past life, I studied hibernation in ground squirrels. I still find the process incredible: the squirrel literally drops its body temperature to ambient. Curled up in its burrow, it feels like a dead thing: cold, lifeless. Its heartbeat and breathing have slowed until they're nearly undetectable. Then Spring arrives, the squirrel warms up, and life begins again.

I think emerging from depression must be a bit like arousing from hibernation. You come partway out of your burrow, blinking sleepy eyes against the sun's glare. You look around, surprised: the world has gone on without you. The stark winter landscape is now burgeoning with new life: tender green shoots and leaves unfurling, blossoms shouting a riot of new color. Spring's heady perfume is overwhelming. Everything seems almost too alive.

Perhaps it's too much for you: you crawl back into the cold, dark safety of your own sadness. Or maybe you take a few tentative steps outside, welcoming the sun's rays on your pale skin. Don't rush yourself, it takes a while to get used to being alive again. Breathe in, breathe out. Feel the pounding of your heart. Stretch your cold muscles. Look for familiar landmarks, then venture forth.

Now you can start catching up on everything you've missed.

Science in action

2008-02-25T16:46:00.000-08:00

We went for a walk this afternoon and passed a yard that was full of plastic spoons. A shitload of spoons, maybe 200 of them, handles stuck into the earth. I don't know if it's some new-fangled (or old-fashioned) aeration technique of which I've never heard, or if it's the work of a crazy person (I'm leaning toward the latter), but JJ and The Peanut thought it was the most amazing thing ever.

As soon as we came home, we planted our own little patch of plastic cutlery: we were out of plastic spoons, so we used forks instead. The kids have different hypotheses about what will happen. The Peanut predicts that the forks will grow to be gigantic, "as big as a MOUNTAIN!" JJ suspects that they won't grow, but they might fall over or get dirty or be chewed by critters. (We have a raccoon problem.)

"I can't wait to see what happens," one young scientist pronounced as he watered the forks. His colleague was more interested in practical applications: "I going to use my giant fork to eat a big, BIG pancake!"

Food, glorious food

2008-01-30T09:54:00.001-08:00

For the first time since The Peanut was born, I feel pretty good. Not that I was completely miserable, but I was depressed. Not getting enough sleep for an entire year really took a toll on my body, mind, and soul, and I suspect that my postpartum/breastfeeding hormonal cocktail was doing me no favors.

Never one to let well enough alone, I've decided to do some more work on my fucked-up relationship with food. When I've written before about my struggles with eating and body image, it's been in the past tense. And it's true that I've worked through the most severe of my symptoms: I no longer starve myself, throw up, or exercise excessively. I don't count calories. I haven't weighed myself in more than six years.

But I'm still not happy with the way I eat or even think about food. I'd like to be more present in my life, and eating/not eating is one of the ways I avoid the world. I use food to comfort myself—and sometimes punish myself. I seldom eat mindfully: I either snatch bites here and there, or I binge. I binge when I'm unhappy, lonely, or nervous—whenever I don't want to face an uncomfortable situation or feeling. I also binge when I haven't eaten enough throughout the day and am suddenly starving.

I know it's unrealistic to think that I'll ever be completely free of my food issues, but I'd like to feel more comfortable with food. And so I called R., my psychiatrist/therapist/fairy godmother, for a few tune-up sessions. As always, R. has been helping me navigate through the sticky territory of my psyche while also offering practical suggestions. And one of her suggestions was to write about all of this. Which, for some reason, I find enormously difficult and painful. Maybe it's because for me, food has its own language—a language that doesn't translate easily into English.

But maybe finding the right words is a step in the right direction. If I can explain my feelings about food, perhaps those feelings will no longer have so much power over me.

It's worth a try, right?

Good-bye, Dee Dee

2008-01-28T12:05:00.000-08:00

It's been a little more than a month since I nursed The Peanut for the last time. I've tried to write about it several times, but I've found it surprisingly difficult. I'm not sure why, exactly; our experience weaning couldn't have been better timed or more mutually respectful. But I can't help but feel a bit sad that my breastfeeding days are over.

I loved breastfeeding both my children. I loved that my body could provide all the nourishment they needed for their first six months in the world. I loved the comforting warmth of their bodies pressed against mine. I loved the way JJ looked drunk on milk and love when he pulled off my breast. I loved how The Peanut's hands never stopped moving as she nursed: stroking my hair, patting my cheek, then reaching down to touch her own belly.

Of course there were things about breastfeeding I wasn't wild about. With JJ, the first two weeks were a hell of sore nipples and anxiety about producing enough milk. With The Peanut, I had the comfort of knowing from the start that I'm a genuine milch cow, but the misery of cracked and bleeding nipples stretched over an entire year as we passed a thrush infection back and forth. And I sometimes resented being tethered to my children when they were tiny; despite our best efforts, both would have rather starved than drink from a bottle.

I nursed JJ until he was 20 months old, which is when I decided to get pregnant again. I know I could have continued to breastfeed, but I didn't feel up for it. Weaning JJ was an incredibly organic experience: one day the thought popped into my mind that I was ready to wean, and the next day he skipped his bedtime nursing session. Within a month, we were done...and I was pregnant again.

The Peanut got to breastfeed until she was almost two and a half. By then, we were only nursing in the mornings: she would wake up, come into our bed, and then nurse and cuddle for a while. I might have gone on that way forever had my body not decided to stage a protest. One day, seemingly out of the blue, my milk dried up—and breastfeeding became an agony.

I thought it would be hard to talk The Peanut into weaning. Toddlers can be remarkably stubborn about the tiniest things, and The Peanut's beloved Dee Dee (as she called nursing) did not qualify as a tiny thing. So, bracing myself for a violent backlash, I told The Peanut one morning that Dee Dee would have to stop. She was surprisingly calm about it: "Why we not do Dee Dee any more?"

"Well, you're growing up, sweetheart," I replied. "And you've probably noticed that there's not really any milk coming out."

"Dee Dee all gone?" she asked plaintively.

"Yes, sweetie. It's all gone. But let's have Dee Dee one more time, just so we can say good-bye."

"No." She shook her head decisively. "I done now. No more Dee Dee."

And that's how it ended, with barely a whimper. We still have our morning cuddle sessions, and she still comforts herself by stroking my hair. (Cries of "I need to touch Mommy's hair!" ring out quite frequently these days.) But I miss it, I really do.

Good-bye, Dee Dee.

Happy New Year!

2008-01-01T10:35:00.000-08:00

Here are ten things in my life that bring me great joy:

1. My hilarious, brilliant, fabulous babies.

2. My adoring and adorable husband.

3. My work, which helps tether me to the world outside the House of Crazy.

4. The House of Crazy itself, which has taught me the meaning of the word "home."

5. Our beautiful coastside community, which despite its flaws, is exactly where I want to be.

6. Wonderful friends who make me feel good about myself and put up with all my bullshit.

7. A healthy body and (more or less) healthy mind.

8. A space of my own where I can write.

9. Having more than enough of everything -- so we can give to those who don't.

10. This blog.

Bad Santa

2007-12-22T07:37:00.000-08:00

The Peanut has issues with Santa. And by "issues," I mean she finds him absolutely terrifying.

It started when I took her to a Christmas craft show a few weeks ago. There was a room set up for making your own gingerbread houses, which I thought she'd really enjoy. But while we were waiting in line, Santa walked by, ringing some jingle bells and belting out "Ho Ho Ho!s." That was the end of the fun for The Peanut. She buried her head in my chest and refused to let go of me. We left without gingerbreading.

The next weekend, JJ wanted to sit on Santa's lap, so we headed for the mall. JJ was thrilled to talk to Santa and gave him a big hug. Meanwhile, The Peanut tried to crawl back into my womb, even though she and I were about 100 feet from the Santa Land display.

And it's not only the mall Santa who's on The Peanut's shit list. "I don't want Santa in my house," she declares.

"But Peanut," JJ protests, "Santa's going to bring us presents!"

"He can leave them outside."

"But what about the cookies? We need to leave cookies out for him!"

"He can eat them outside, too."

I've asked The Peanut what's so scary about Santa. "He has pointy boots," is the only explanation I've gotten. I'll tell you one thing, though: that dude is everywhere. If you're looking for evidence of Santa's ubiquitousness, just check out the claw marks on my neck.

Ho ho ho.

Ten Things About Myself I Probably Shouldn't Admit

2007-11-14T04:38:00.000-08:00

1. I hate board games.

2. I have an unforgivable habit of not tightening lids on jars. (Why Jack hasn't divorced me for this is a great mystery.)

3. My go-to "cleaning" method is to shove crap in cabinets, closets, and under the bed.

4. I hate calling people on the phone and will do almost anything to avoid it.

5. I was a bigger nerd in high school than you can possibly imagine.

6. Evidence of #5: The only team sport I played was Knowledge Bowl.

7. Yet more evidence: There is still a poster of Rick Springfield hanging on the wall of my old room at my father's house.

8. I hate hanging out at the playground.

9. I love reading science fiction and fantasy novels. (Don't ask me to divulge any titles because I will plead the Fifth.)

10. I can pee faster than anyone else on this earth.

Out of the mouths of...moms

2007-09-06T09:31:00.000-07:00

Phrases I never thought I'd utter:

"No more eyeball talk at the dinner table!"

"You can kill each other after you get your pajamas on."

"Please take Mr. Incredible out of your mouth right now."

"Wow, that really is amazing. Thank you so much for showing it to me. Now will you please flush the toilet?"

Now it's your turn. C'mon, let's hear 'em.

Bad Guys

2007-09-05T11:17:00.000-07:00

The good news is that JJ seems to be adjusting to life as a kindergartener. The bad news is that he's become very worried about Bad Guys.

Bad Guys seem to be a very big deal for boys in kindergarten. (Maybe preschool, too—we're probably just behind the curve on this.) When I asked JJ if he was having fun with the other kids in his class, he shook his head sadly. "The girls don't want to play with me. And all the boys...well, they just want to play Bad Guys."

JJ doesn't like playing Bad Guys. Or rather, he's not too sure about it yet. He's making tentative forays into the world of Bad Guys at home: the boy dolls are Bad Guys who are trying to kill the girl dolls. (I find this quite disturbing, actually: why are the girls always good and the boys always bad? It's a common theme in the House of Crazy.) But no killing ever occurs, because the girl dolls inevitably build elaborate structures out of Mega Blocks, then use their magic powers to render these structures invisible. The boy dolls wander around aimlessly, saying things like, "Well, I guess we aren't going to be able to kill those girls. I wonder where they went?" Meanwhile, the girl dolls hunker down in their invisible fortresses until the coast is clear.

I'm guessing that the Bad Guy scenarios on the playground are considerably more bloody or violent. The only evidence I have is that JJ has added a new bit to his bedtime routine:

JJ: Mommy, I'm scared. What if a Bad Guy comes in my room tonight?

Me: Are you afraid someone might come into your room?

JJ: Uh huh.

Me: Why?

JJ: I just am.

Me: Well, that's not going to happen. But if it did happen, I would hear it over your baby monitor. And I would come in and throw the Bad Guy out the window and into the street.

That satisfied him at first, but the next night he had another question:

JJ: What if the bad guy is stronger than you are?

Me: Are you kidding me? Feel this muscle.

JJ: But what if the Bad Guy's muscle is bigger than that?

Me: Well, that's very unlikely. But if his muscle were bigger than that, Daddy would come help me throw him out the window.

And the next night:

JJ: What if the bad guy is made out of fire?

Me: Oh, no problem. I'll throw water on him.

JJ: What if he's made of a grease fire and water won't work?

Me: That's why we have baking soda. And a fire extinguisher. I'll bring both just to be safe.

Each night the scenario has gotten more complicated. I'm beginning to think my child is losing faith in his parents' ability to protect him. I suppose that's inevitable—and even desirable—but it still makes me sad.

Tonight I'm going to give JJ his own squirt bottle to keep on his bedside table. Nobody—not even the baddest Bad Guy—enjoys being sprayed in the face. I'm quite sure I won't enjoy getting a faceful when I go check on him in the middle of the night.

Too tiny

2007-09-01T15:13:00.001-07:00

“Would you like to try peeing in the potty?” I ask The Peanut hopefully.

“No.” She shakes her head. “Me too tiny.”

“Oh. When do you think you’ll be big enough?”

She shoots me a look of…disdain? Pity? “When me seven.”

...and beginnings.

2007-08-31T09:58:00.000-07:00

Life Chez Crazy will never be the same again: JJ started Kindergarten on Monday.

Anyone who knows me in real life will want to run screaming into traffic when they see the word "Kindergarten" on my blog. I literally agonized for months about whether to send JJ this year. It got to the point where even Jack was sick of hearing about it. But it was a tough decision: JJ's birthday is in November, just a month before our state's cut-off date. Which means that he's starting Kindergarten at age four.

That wouldn't trouble me too much if it weren't for the trend of redshirting that's sweeping the nation. After all, I was four when I started Kindergarten. And like JJ, I was small for my age. (Of course, I was a girl, which I'm told makes a huge difference.) But because so many parents are holding their children back an extra year, many of JJ's classmates are more than a year older than he is. He's not the smallest child in his class, but there are certainly plenty of kids who tower over him. And when I think of what his life might be like in middle school, I break out in a cold sweat.

It's not that JJ's behind academically or socially. In fact, I'd venture to say that he's one of the more socially advanced boys of his age. But he's young. And maybe a little bit sheltered. (Which is undoubtedly my fault.) While the other boys are running around the playground being "bad guys" and gunning each other down, my sweet child is pretending to be a mermaid.

It's hard to know how to take his reports of school. On Monday he was excited: "We got to hear two stories! And sing lots of songs!" His enthusiasm carried over through Tuesday: "Today we got to hold the guinea pigs! They're so soft!" But Wednesday he seemed a little tearful: "No one wanted to play with me." And yesterday he told me he doesn't like school: "Two boys hit me. On the playground and then in the classroom." On the way to school today he said, "I just wish I were sick so I could stay home with you."

This is uncharted territory for me. JJ went to a cooperative preschool, so I was aware of most of what was happening even when he was away from me. Now there's a yawning four-hour period of his day that I know almost nothing about. I have this sick feeling in my stomach that makes me wonder if we've made a terrible mistake starting him so young.

I realize that any big decision we make will surely translate into years of future therapy, but this one really has me worried.

Endings...

2007-08-30T15:13:00.000-07:00

My uncle died last week after a long battle with hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. I flew to the midwest for his funeral and spent time with my aunt and my cousins. It was good to see everyone even though it was a very sad event. And I'm glad I had the chance to say good-bye.

When I was little, my uncle scared the shit out of me. He was physically imposing with a big, booming voice—and a tendency to yell. I thought he was always angry, and because I'm basically a self-centered person, I thought he was always angry with me.

It wasn't until fairly recently that I realized what a wonderful, warm-hearted person my uncle was. Shortly before my grandmother died, I flew out to visit her and stayed with my aunt and uncle. My aunt informed me one day that she had plans for the evening and my uncle would be taking me out to dinner. I was terrified. I couldn't imagine what we'd talk about. I figured we'd stare at each other or he'd start yelling at me. I tried to think of an excuse, but there was no avoiding it.

I needn't have worried. My uncle chose a beautiful restaurant with great food. We shared a bottle of wine and sampled each other's entrees. We talked about so many different things: his psychiatry practice, my crazy family, my husband, and my uncle's children (my cousins). We laughed and cried and actually enjoyed a real conversation.

I'm not sure exactly why I feel so bereft. It's not as if I've lost a parent or even someone I saw very often. But I miss my uncle. I wish I'd known him better.

Happy Mother's Day

2007-05-13T19:41:00.000-07:00

I became a mother at the age of 34, after years of being seriously crazy and somewhat unhappy. As the child of crazy and unhappy people, I was pretty sure I’d be a terrible parent and was unfit to have a child of my own.

And I didn’t particularly like kids. I never felt pangs of maternal longing, never wanted to hold other people’s babies. I thought they were lumpish and weird, and I was positive they’d break if I dropped them.

Jack and I were together for more than 10 years before I even considered getting pregnant. And then I realized I’d need therapy—a lot of therapy—before I had any business bringing a child into the world. So I spent several years getting my shit together, and then I took a deep breath and jumped.

And fell in love. From the moment I saw that pink line on the pregnancy test, I was crazy in love with the baby who turned out to be my son. People told me how much they loved their kids, but I certainly wasn’t prepared to be swept off my feet by a fetus. Then I gave birth to this perfect baby boy, and it was as if I’d known him all my life.

I knew I wanted JJ to have a sibling, but I couldn’t imagine there was room in my heart for another baby. My pregnancy with The Peanut was so different, probably in large part due to a completely dissimilar hormonal cocktail, but also because I was mourning the loss of the relationship I had with my one and only child. But then I discovered that what everyone told me was true: my heart has an infinite capacity for love, and The Peanut had her place in there right next to her brother.

Our family is complete now. There will be no more new babies, no more sweet milky faces or sleepless all-night nurse-a-thons. Even though I know that everyone’s here, I have moments of sadness when I realize that the only newborn babies I’ll hold will have sprung from someone else’s body. As The Peanut nears her second birthday and both children are becoming more independent, I know that a new chapter in our lives is just beginning. It’s glorious and heartbreaking and wonderful and tragic, and I only hope that I’m as good at letting them go as I am at holding them close.

Don't hate me because my house is clean

2007-04-10T15:34:00.000-07:00

To those visitors to The House of Crazy—past, present, and future—I offer you an apology. I have a terrible, obnoxious habit to which I must confess.

You know when you call me and I say, "Sure, come over, but my house is a total disaster"? And then you come over, and it's reasonably tidy and clean? And then you think either a) I'm a totally insane neatfreak who clearly has no idea what a disaster is, or b) I'm a disingenuous asshole?

So this is what happens. I hang up the phone, look around and say, "Wow, this place really is a total disaster. I'm kind of embarrassed about it, actually. Maybe I'll just tidy up a bit." So I order the children to start picking up toys, and I start straightening the myriad piles of crap on the counter, and then I think, "Hmm, there sure is a lot of crap on the counter. Maybe I should sort it. Or maybe just shove it in the cookbook cupboard." Then I see that the counters are actually relatively filthy, so I give them a couple of spritzes and wipes. Then I see the carpet without the layer of toys—for the first time in days, I might add—and I say, "Wow, this carpet is really filthy. Maybe I ought to get out the vacuum."

And so it goes. If you come over within the hour, I won't have made much progress. If you take much longer, the place may actually look presentable by the time you get here.

So here's the moral of the story: don't call first. Just come on over. Revel with me in the piles of crap and the baskets overflowing with unfolded laundry. I hate housework, so I'll thank you for it.

One of Those Days

2007-02-15T17:46:00.000-08:00

Every time I decide I've emerged from my depression, I have One of Those Days. Those days when just getting out of bed is a major accomplishment, taking a shower seems impossible, and putting on clothes is absolutely out of the question. And yet somehow I have to do all those things and feed the kids and help them get ready and keep them from killing each other and/or burning the house down and take JJ to school and carry The Peanut everywhere and nurse her every 5 minutes because she has horrible separation anxiety and make dinner and try to keep it together until everyone's in bed.

Before I had kids, I could spend days like this in my pajamas, in bed. Shortly before and during my nervous breakdown, I spent a lot of days in my pajamas, in bed. Don't get me wrong, I'm not pining for the good ol' days of burrowing under the covers and living in my fucked-up head. I think it's good for me to get out of the house and move. But some days are harder than others.

Yesterday was One of Those Days. I honestly felt I would never make it through. But somehow, I did, hopefully inflicting a minimum of emotional scarring on my children.

I wish I knew what triggered it. Maybe it was coming down from the sugar and love high of Valentine's Day, or maybe it was skipping my run that morning. Today I got up and ran three miles, and as I pounded along the sidewalk and watched the sun rise over the fog, the day seemed so much more hopeful.

I'm hoping tomorrow will be a good day, too.

Sleeping Beauty she ain't

2007-02-09T15:13:00.000-08:00

Don’t be fooled by her rosebud lips, her dimples, or her penchant for pink frilly clothes: The Peanut is a frat boy in training. How else can one explain her room-shaking belches, fart jokes, and all-night partying? It’s the last trait that’s killing us here at the House of Crazy. I’d be weeping constantly if only I had the strength.

When your first child sleeps through the night at two and a half months, you’re sure you’ve got it all figured out. Oh sure, you tell everyone that it’s just luck, that you hit the jackpot. But secretly you’re sure that it’s your strict 7 pm bedtime, your nightly Goodnight Moon reading, and your magical boobs that deserve the credit.

Then you get the karmic ass-biting you so richly deserve: a child who simply won’t sleep. Suddenly, you’re apologizing to all your friends for your unbearable smugness. And begging them for advice. Because seriously, if you don’t get two consecutive hours of sleep you will lose your goddamn mind.

For the first three and a half months of her life, The Peanut would only sleep tucked into the crook of my arm. At the time, it was somewhat nightmarish if only because she insisted on a strict 7 pm bedtime, and I wasn't particularly thrilled about retiring so early. But it was also sweet to cuddle with my wee girlie.

At three and a half months, she blossomed into the party animal she is today. Bedtime was play time, and no one got a wink of sleep until we booted her into her crib. The crib was a bit better, but there was still a lot of night waking. And by "a lot," I mean every two or three hours. For pretty much the first year. Jack and I were walking zombies. Depressed zombies. Who never had sex any more.

The situation improved when she turned one. I don't mean she started sleeping through the night, mind you—I just mean two or three wakings. So that's how things stand now, and it's almost bearable. Except for the fact that every couple of months, she regresses to waking up every hour. Crying and begging to come sleep with us...and then when we bring her in the bed, it's party time.

I love The Peanut with all my heart, but I am about two sleepless nights away from renting her an apartment of her own.

All full of Happy

2007-02-07T17:25:00.000-08:00

Last week the Crazy Family headed up to the snow with the Happy Family. The aptly named Happies, I should say. From the moment we started packing to leave, I felt great. Better than I’ve felt in almost two years, in fact.

We’ve known the Happies since JJ and their daughter M. were four and three months old, respectively. JJ stayed with them when The Peanut was born. Then Baby C. came along two months later. It’s like a ready-made playgroup. And unless you count The Peanut's suspicions that Baby C. is out to get her, we all click. The Happies are awesome.

I won’t say the trip was totally smooth, because it wasn’t. But I loved every minute of it, even the bumpy parts. Trying to start the Beverly Hillbillies snowmobile, sledding down the slushy hill, dodging the gigantic man-eating spiders lurking in the shower, getting creamed at Cranium, making fresh ~~Giardia~~ snow cones, being ridiculed for my UFO sighting—it was all good.

I can’t wait to do it again next year.

Just shoot me already

2007-01-31T15:34:00.001-08:00

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 *

2007-01-22T14:44:00.000-08:00

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

2007-01-17T14:29:00.000-08:00

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

2007-01-16T21:17:00.000-08:00

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

2007-01-10T21:31:00.000-08:00

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

2007-01-02T17:34:00.000-08:00

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

2007-01-01T16:59:00.000-08:00

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!

2007-01-01T16:44:00.000-08:00

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?

"You kiss your mama with that mouth?"

2006-12-31T12:45:00.000-08:00

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

2006-12-29T21:27:00.000-08:00

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

2006-12-28T15:30:00.000-08:00

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

2006-12-18T15:51:00.000-08:00

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

2006-11-13T21:49:00.000-08:00

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."

2006-11-11T17:08:00.000-08:00

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

2006-10-20T16:52:00.000-07:00

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

2006-10-18T21:19:00.000-07:00

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

2006-10-04T08:36:00.000-07:00

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

2006-10-02T08:42:00.000-07:00

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?

2006-09-27T18:37:00.000-07:00

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?

2006-09-25T13:34:00.000-07:00

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

2006-09-22T08:58:00.000-07:00

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

2006-09-07T17:11:00.000-07:00

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

2006-09-06T20:39:00.000-07:00

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

2006-09-06T18:12:00.000-07:00

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

2006-08-19T12:04:00.000-07:00

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

2006-08-17T10:10:00.000-07:00

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

2006-08-16T10:06:00.000-07:00

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?

2006-08-11T18:54:00.000-07:00

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

2006-08-10T20:35:00.000-07:00

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

2006-08-09T10:14:00.000-07:00

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

2006-08-07T09:48:00.000-07:00

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

2006-08-04T11:14:00.000-07:00

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

2006-08-04T07:47:00.000-07:00

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?

2006-08-01T09:59:00.000-07:00

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

2006-07-30T08:59:00.000-07:00

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.