Just shoot me already

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

And then I had a boy.

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

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

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

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

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

This chemical imbalance in my brain is driving me crazy *

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

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

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

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

That shit just makes me lose my fucking mind! *


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

I'm on a roll here

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

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

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

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

So much for Mother of the Year 2007

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Peanut Gallery

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

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

10. Baby dolls.

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

8. Trucks and trains.

7. Art projects—the messier, the better.



6. Stomping in puddles.

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

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

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

2. Ice cream. With sprinkles.

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

1. Her big brother.

Natural Consequences

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

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

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

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

Addendum

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

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

2007 is off to a great start.

Happy New Year!

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

This year, I plan to work on the following:

1. Be a kinder, more compassionate person.

2. Write more.

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

4. Be more patient with my children.

What are you working on in 2007?

"You kiss your mama with that mouth?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Hot Zone

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

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

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

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

Holidays, Crazy-style

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

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

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

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

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

Conversation in the car the other day:

The Peanut: Ah pooped!

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

The Peanut: JJ pooped!

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

The Peanut: Mommy pooped!

JJ: HAAhahahahahahahahhaha! Mommy pooped! Hahahahahaha!

Chorus from the backseat: Mommy pooped! Mommy pooped!

Peanut talk

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

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

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

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

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

"It's so hard being four."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

These gay strippers are ruining my life

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

JJ could not have cared less about them, incidentally.

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

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

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

The Hot Cops have got to go.

Hold me closer, set me free

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

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

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

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

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

Time to lay off those nature programs

Conversation in the car on the way home from school:


JJ: I was a chameleon today at school.

Me: I know, I saw you.

JJ: I was a male chameleon.

Me: Oh, really?

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

Me: Oh?

JJ: I mated with two females today.

Me: …. Oh. Really?

JJ: Yes. With E. and S.

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

This woman's work

I made my neighbor cry the other day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Is this a bad sign?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes we do.”

“I don’t know where they are.”

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

“Where did you say those scissors were?”

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

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

I am a shameless whore.

All right, who stuck a quarter in him?

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

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

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

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

I am way too old for this job.