Too tiny

“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.

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...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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!