Discussion with My Child About Charlottesville

Usually, I don't listen to NPR when my kids are in the car. It has the potential to give rise to conversations I feel completely ill-equipped to navigate or contain details about gruesome deaths. Yesterday, I didn't turn it off when Darla got in the car. I kept it on. The program covered the white supremacist protest in Charlottesville from the perspective of a counter-protestor. She spoke of how the police did nothing but stand by while counter-protestors were attacked. 

As I listened, I wondered what everyone else with a heart wondered: if the demographic of the protestors had been different, would the protest have been as peaceful? The answer seems obvious. If it were a Black Lives Matter march, it wouldn't. Something about white men in polo shirts with tidy haircuts doesn't convey violence despite the fact that they're screaming grotesque, racist words with hate filled hearts. Their whiteness shines like an assurance that terrible things won't happen by their hands, despite the fact that white men have been involved in some of the world's most gruesome violence. 

As I thought this over, I forgot that there was a little girl in the back seat listening to the same broadcast. Her small voice chimed in from the back seat.

"Why were people hitting people?" Darla asked.

I left the radio on for a reason. I didn't want to shield her from the truth of violent, white supremacists. I wanted her to understand that there are people in the world who believe that white people are superior to all other races. I wanted her to know this and know the darkness so she can understand that such thoughts are evil. I wasn't prepared to actually answer questions about it. I was hoping the radio would do all the talking for me. I had no option but to stumble my way through a complex topic and hope I didn't make a thousand mistakes.

"There are some people who decided to protest because they don't like people who aren't white," I said ungracefully. "They're angry people who hurt other people. They're known as racists. People who aren't racists showed up and said that what the racists were doing wasn't right, so the racists hit them."

"But I thought we were supposed to love everyone," Darla said. "Shouldn't we love the racists?"

I knew that I had misspoke or she had misunderstood. The message received was that there were people we could hate and that we could hate the race of people known as racists. I was already failing as a parent raising a socially conscious first grader. In trying to get her to understand that we can't judge based on the color of one's skin, I had told her that there were races it was ok to hate. I had to try, again.

"Racists aren't a race of people," I said. "Racism is something people believe in. It's an idea that white people are better. This idea isn't true and it makes people do violent things."

"Oh, I see," said Darla, still confused, but unwilling to admit it. 

I tried my best with this conversation, but knew that it was weak, ineffective, and ineloquent. The impassioned speeches I envisioned myself giving as a parent were not becoming a reality. I was disappointed in my effort. Despite my frustration with myself, I'm working hard to not let that conversation prevent me from keeping an open dialogue going. I can't be afraid to speak truth because I'm afraid I'm going to be the worst at it. These conversations are too important.

Since the election of Trump, a man who can't even bring himself to admonish Nazis, we have been confronted by incredibly terrifying realities. We inch ever-closer to nuclear war and white nationalists are coming out of the shadows and loudly declaring their beliefs with phrases like "jew will not replace us." And I sit here and feel paralyzed; feeling so small and unable to combat such bigotry. 

I know that I have the power to affect some small change, however. I can help the world by raising a child who doesn't have hate in her heart. And I know I can be a responsible parent not just by admonishing those "out there" who propagate overtly racist ideas, but by showing that racisms can be very local. There's racism everywhere and, as white people, we're the beneficiary of a racist system. I will not raise a color-blind child because that masks the racism in the world. It protects my kids from a reality that people of color have to face every day. It's the reason why white liberals have become so tone deaf and unable to see how we contribute to this racist system. 

I've been struck over the past few years, ever since the racist violence at the hands of police officers came to light for the white audience, that white liberals love referencing how we live in a bubble. Often, it's said that we're in a reality full of rainbows, sunshine, and acceptance; that we had no clue that black men are routinely murdered by police officers. 

I don't want to create such a comfortable environment for my kids that they fail to understand that this country isn't doling out fair hands. As long as we live in a country that believes the sight of a black man walking down the street in a hoody is terrifying, but a white man carrying a tiki torch and spouting white supremacist hate is fine, we need to work. I'm going to do my best to ensure that they do everything in their power to fight racism in all its forms. So, we'll continue to listen to the radio together and discuss (however clumsily) all the ugly topics this country has to offer. Or, maybe I'll just buy a really great picture book that explains all this for me. 

Last Day of Summer

Two months before summer began, I had visions of daily beach trips and ice cream sundaes every day. The first day of summer, I scaled it down to one beach trip every week. I, also, decided I'd wait two weeks to start that tradition because there was far too much to do. Today, the last day of summer, with the exception of our vacation beach trip, we'd made it to the beach exactly once. The day we decided to go just happened to be the coldest day of summer. Most of the summer was spent watching too much TV, eating ice cream, and running errands. 

Today was my last chance to make it seem like we'd had a productive summer. I decided it was finally time to break out the Pom Pom making kit. I had bought it weeks before and thought we'd make numerous pom pom puppies before August 14. Today, we decided to tackle the project. The recommended age group for this project was eight years old, but I thought that those rules didn't apply to us. How hard could wrapping yarn around plastic be? Actually, if you tend not to read the entire set of instructions on any given craft, the answer is "very."

We had to restart the project three times because I failed to read the guide carefully. Every time I thought I understood it, I realized I had skipped a crucial step, like the part where I was supposed to measure the yarn before we even started. We both grew increasingly frustrated as the hour wore on. 

Darla, in the "great giver up" tradition of my family, would complain every other breath and eventually just ask me to do it for her. I knew I was supposed to guide her through the process, but I wanted to get the project over with as much as she did. I did the bulk of the labor. It was just easier that way. I wrapped the yarn, tied the yarn, and cut the yarn. There was a reason that only people eight and older were supposed to do the project. For both Darla and I, no crafting lessons were learned and no fun was had.

I did understand, however, a few crucial facts. First, I have about as much patience as a six year old. I'm assuming that patience is an important factor when working on a craft. The second thing I learned is that I despise crafting. I know that this is sacrilege for mothers. Making small art projects that involve glue guns is supposed to be as good as heroin for me. They aren't. Crafts involving beads, glue, yarn, glitter, construction paper, and anything else you buy at Michaels feel more like stubbing my toe over and over again. 

I've always felt this way. I've never been artistically inclined and always gave minimal effort in all art classes I've ever taken. As a mom, it's going to have to be ok that I don't want to craft. My kids can come to me whenever they wants to bitch about strangers and eat brownies, two things at which I excel. She can go to her dad and school for all craft related activities.  

In the last few hours of summer, we finished the head of the pom pom dog. We forewent the body of the dog and decided we would do it another day. (Darla asked me to promise that another day wouldn't be years from now. It was a promise I wasn't able to make. With any luck, that kit will be buried deep in a landfill in the next few months). As I looked from the picture of the example and the actual dog we made, I noticed a very stark contrast between the two. I was happy, however, that we had actually finished it and it sort of looked like the dog. 

Satisfied that we'd made it to the end of a craft without any tears, I told Darla to put on her swimsuit. She'd go swimming with her good friend to finish the day. Hopefully laughing and splashing in the pool will be the memory she takes with her as she remembers her last day of summer before starting first grade.  

A Former Sleep Champion

In college, I was a championship level sleeper. I could go for a solid twelve hours, get up to drink water and pee, and then go right back to bed for another four hours. I would routinely wake up at 2:00 or 3:00 in the afternoon on the weekends. This would be followed by a lot of drinking and late night Jack in the Box runs. I guess, if I'm being totally honest here, I was just running on a malnourished and hungover most of the time, so maybe my excessive sleep wasn't 100% healthy.

As I grew older and had actual, real-life worries, I began to have bouts of insomnia. I would only get four hours of sleep every night for weeks until I lost my mind a little as it hit a fever pitch. After it hit that crescendo, I would go back to my normal, award-winning sleep. It wasn't a pattern that I loved, but I made it work. At least I had my beloved 12-16 hours sleeps to look forward to when in the thick of my insomnia

I knew I didn't want to welcome anything into my life that would steal this joy from me, which is why I decided to not have kids after fostering a baby pit bull. It whined 24 hours a day, demanding to be pet or fed six times a night. I called my mom after that first night and told her what I had learned.

"I regret to inform you that I will not be having kids," I said to my mom.

"Ok, whatever you want," she replied.

A few months later, as I stared down in a panic at the test that read "pregnant," the first thing I thought was that I'd have to revise the statement I'd previously made to my mom. The second thought I had was that I was never going to sleep, again. I wept bitterly for the loss of my uninterrupted sleep. I was only five weeks pregnant at that point and couldn't even fully comprehend how bad my sleep was going to get. 

When Darla arrived, the sleep deprivation was worse than I could've imagined. She was up every hour for the first six months of her life. I would cry and beg her to go back to sleep, but she never listened. Sometimes, she'd wake up at 3:00am just because she wanted to hangout. We weren't best friends on nights like that. Even when she started sleeping through the night, she was waking up before the sun most days.

When Jude came along, they became adept at waking each other up randomly throughout the night or early in the morning. Over six years, I have grown increasingly more and more exhausted and desperate to go at least two straight months with 12 hours of sleep a night. Greg and I have worked out "sleep-in" days on the weekends, but this is only to get eight hours of sleep. My previous self would've considered this a nap.

My kids know how much I love sleep. "My daddy goes to work and my mommy goes to bed," said a two-year-old Darla. I protested that it wasn't true, but I knew, deep down, that was the career I would've chosen had it been an option. I crawl back into bed at every opportunity to catch as much of it as I can. Every occasion that celebrates me, the only thing I ask for is sleep. I look forward to those days for months and feel depressed as I go to bed the day before my birthday or Mother's Day because I know my sleep marathon will be over soon. I mourn it before it has even begun.

The kids have gotten much better at sleep, but we only go a few days before one of them does something to disrupt my sleep and leads me to have less than four hours of REM. On the days that they don't, I struggle with insomnia as I worry over innumerable problems. Sometimes it's work that didn't get done. At other times, I'm worrying over what I would do if a bald eagle ate my wedding ring. I assume the bald eagle is more valuable than my ring, so I start to feel a bout of anxiety as I realize that my wedding ring would forever be gone if that ever happened. And then I get angry at myself for losing sleep over this hypothetical scenario. And then I have to get out of bed because one of the kids is screaming because he wants more water.  

Put Your Shoes On, Put Your Shoes On, Put Your Shoes On

In high school, I cooked dinner once (maybe twice). This is the benefit of being the youngest child in a family of twelve. The one time my mom commissioned me to make dinner, she gave me detailed instructions over the phone. The phone call lasted one hour in which she broke down every step of the process, repeating every part two to three times.

"Take out the chicken from the refrigerator, remove it from the package, and rinse it off," she said. "You get that? You really want to make sure you rinse it well. It's important you rinse it."  

I rolled my eyes through the whole process. As soon as I got off the phone, I prepared the dinner following her instructions. Despite my mom being completely thorough, there were still details that may have seemed self-explanatory that didn't get addressed. She, unfortunately, didn't tell me which side of the whole chicken was supposed to be facing up, so I cooked it upside down. My logic was that the chicken lived with its breast pointed toward the ground, so this was the best way to cook it. Why reverse things in death? I wasn't asked to make dinner again, which is when I learned the amazing lesson that doing something very poorly guarantees that you won't be asked to do it ever again.

I recounted this experience many times since that night because I found it to be the perfect example of how my mom repeats everything. 

"It's crazy," I'd say. "I heard her the first time. Why does she need to tell me so many more times?"

Six years into this parenting thing, I realize that I was the reason my mom repeated everything. I had trained her to say the same thing over and over again because I didn't listen to her the first time. I know this because I am now the one to reiterate instructions innumerable times.

"Put your shoes on," I say, taking a deep breath because I know I have another five minutes of saying this before even one sneaker gets put on. I wait one minute. "Put your shoes on." I wait another minute. "Put your shoes on." I wait another minute. "Put your shoes on." My blood starts boiling. "If you ever want to watch tv again, you will put your shoes on right now." I wait another minute. "That's it. You're not going out. Put your shoes on." This continues until I'm on the verge of tears. 

In 15 years, Darla and Jude are going to be the ones who talk about how annoying it is that I repeat myself so much. In another 25 years, I hope they realize that they're the reason I do it. In the meantime, I'd like to give my mom a formal apology for not listening to her ever.  

Another Woman is Writing About the "Mommy Wars" and That Woman is Me

(Warning: I would like to acknowledge that, yes, this is another woman writing about the "mommy wars." I'm just that predictable. My brain has been fried since having kids so things have gotten a bit more rote. I can't even guarantee you that a single sentence in here is inspired or original).

Parenthood, to its core, is a thankless job. You give to these kids and you never get a thank you. You think about them constantly and they repay you by peeing all over your floor. You work hard on a kid-friendly dinner that's so boring you almost fall asleep standing at the stove and they feed their over-boiled broccoli and rubbery chicken nuggets to the dog. 

Beyond being an occupation that's completely devoid of kudos (even my miserly, crusty, old boss at the fast food restaurant I worked at in High School smiled at me every once in awhile in appreciation), it's also filled with more external derision than any other job. This is especially true if you're a mom. 

Pictures and videos constantly appear online of moms not doing it right. Beneath every picture are hundreds of comments about what that mom is doing wrong. One that has stuck with me for years is a video someone posted online of a child having a tantrum at shoe store's checkout counter. It was next level with blood curdling screams and I think she even wound up on the floor at some point. The mom ignores her daughter AND even buys her daughter the shoes she wants. Every comment under the picture chided the mother for not leaving the store immediately; for buying her the shoes despite (or maybe because of) her tantrum. 

I hated every single one of those commenters. Do they have any idea how hard it is to get kids out of the house? So, she was supposed to leave and bring her kid back later when she wasn't acting like such a little shit? There's no chance of that happening. It's not like the kid was going to be so much better the next time they went. So, the mom did what she had to do to get those shoes bought because her kid couldn't walk to school barefoot. I understood that mother. Or, at least, I understood the mother as I imagined she was. She could be a totally awful mom for all I know, but that's not the point. That mother didn't deserve to be publicly shamed for just trying to make it to the end of the day. 

I'd like to take a moment to imagine a new system for judging each other as moms and parents. Since positive reinforcement is so much more effective than negative reinforcement (in my opinion. If your parenting style is the inverse, then that works as well. It's all a crapshoot anyway), I decided to set up more attainable achievements for us parents. These are awards for every parent. "Even if you only give your kids wooden toys and subscribe to every tenant of the Waldorf philosophy?" you ask. Yes. "What if I only buy my kids toys made of plastic with lots of bells and whistles and I subscribe to the "god, just please let me make it to the end of the day" philosophy?" They're for you, too. No matter how your kids came into this world, what you feed them, and how long you let them sleep in your bed, you can reward yourself with these. 

1. The "I Didn't Lose My Shit Today" Award - If you can go a day without getting totally angry at your kids, my hats off to you. That's a red letter day. 
2. The "I Didn't Lose My Shit Too Much Today" Award - In all honesty, your kid was acting like a total asshole by ripping your curtains out of the wall and rubbing your waterproof mascara onto your white walls. I'm surprised you didn't get more pissed than you did. 
3. The "I May Have Lost My Shit Today, But At Least Tomorrow's a New Day" Award" - You know what? It's fine. Tomorrow just try not calling them a jerk. Every day is another opportunity to not completely lose your shit. 
4. The "I Only Hyperventilated Once" Award - You only had one panic attack during your kids two hour long tantrum? That's incredible!
5. The "My Kids Eventually Went to Bed Tonight" Award - Was it technically still nighttime when your kids went to bed? That's quite an achievement. You're dominating this parenting thing and deserve to fully enjoy that one hour of sleep your kids will give you before they wake up for the day!

Whenever you're feeling overwhelmed by all the public shaming of motherhood and you see a woman on social media who looks alarmingly similar to you with kids who look a lot like your kids, just give yourself one of the previous listed awards. You deserve it!

Let's Learn About Toys

We go to museums sometimes. Sometimes we go alone, just as two adults. More often we go with the kids. Before we walk in the museum doors, I feel great about myself. I'm the parent who brings her kids to high brow activities. We shun the common playground and opt for modern art.

I fight off the feeling that we're not extraordinary, but it's a truth that refuses to be ignored. Everyone else in Los Angeles has decided to bring their kids to look at art. Always. All parents are just trying to make it to bedtime in the least painful way possible. Keeping the kids at home makes the day drag on with fights and whining, so days are spent strategizing activities to make it go a little quicker. The sooner they're in bed, the sooner I can watch Sex and the City reruns and eat grocery store cake. Museums are a good option because they kill an hour and a half of the day. Maybe, at some point, my kids might learn something. Museums tick off any requirement I could have of a day. 

Last week, I brought Darla to the Gene Autry Museum to pass some time at the museum's free admission day. We entered the Autry's new "Play" exhibit and I prepared to take Darla on a wonderful journey through the history of toys. I didn't even need to do the hard work of knowing anything about the evolution of toys. The Autry had already created a perfectly curated lesson plan. All I needed to do was read their descriptions accurately. 

I bent over to read the intro plaque that discussed the exhibits overarching intention. The museum planned to show, through the following grouping of play items, how toys have both changed and stayed the same in the thousands of years toys have existed. By the time I was done reading the two very short paragraphs, Darla was gone.

She'd moved on to a wall on which a Radio Flyer, a broom, and a frisbee were nailed and was working on prying free the antique broom. I gasped just a little bit to dramatically when I saw what she was doing. (In my defense, I had already had to live through the horror of one of her friends kicking a priceless piece of art years before. I didn't think I could handle another mortification like that). I told her to stop and then proceeded to read the plaque that explained why those items were all displayed together. I can't tell you why there was a Radio Flyer, broom, and frisbee on the same wall since, one sentence in, Darla had walked away. 

I gave up and was stuck wandering through the exhibit aimlessly, with no regard for how each display built on the theme from the display before. I did attempt one last time to educate her during our visit by reading the plaque that discussed how harmful depictions Native American people in toys has perpetuated corrosive stereotypes. She sat politely through the description, at least, but had no idea what I was talking about.

That's when I notice that the woman next to me began to read a plaque to her six year old son. He walked away from her immediately. I looked around and saw that every other kid in the exhibit were darting from one display to the next. All were recklessly messing with the toys. No one was listening attentively to her parent read about the toys. Everyone under the age of 12 was having the best time not learning anything. 

"Was I always this boring?" I wondered. "Was I always curious to understand theory and learn broader lessons about objects? Was I the type of kid who would contemplate a single piece of art from extended periods of time?"

The answer, I realized, was "no." It wasn't until I hit my 20's that I found museums to be even remotely interesting. As a kid, I hated going to them. I didn't sit in front of sculptures and try to suss out the artist's intention. I thought that shit was boring and whined endlessly until we went home. 

Darla, at least, is interested at looking at everything. I decided to let go of the reigns and let Darla curate the exhibit because, after all, it was an interactive exhibit for christ's sake. We ran from one section to the next for the next hour without learning a thing. When we got in the car that afternoon, Darla declared that she had an awesome time at the museum. I don't think she would've said this if I kept trying to get her to look at every plaque.

Chores Are Done by Magic

When I was five, I woke up one night and knew I needed to throw up. I shot out of bed, but didn't make it to the bathroom. I threw up all over the floor. I wiped my face on my nightgown and decided that I would clean the throw up in the morning.

Funny thing is, the barf was gone when I woke up. I decided that the throw up was a just a dream. That was the best explanation I could come up with. I went about my day as if I hadn't vomited all over the floor the night before. 

It wasn't until years later that I realized that I most definitely threw up. What most likely happened is that my mom stepped in it and cleared away the chunky mess before I woke up that morning. I asked my mom if this was the case. She had no idea. She'd cleaned barf for forty years straight. At some point it all starts to blend together. 

I thought about this story last night as I put away laundry. I had just put a skirt that Darla had worn yesterday, which I had washed, back into her drawer. 

"Shoot," I thought. "She's probably going to think this skirt is still dirty since she just wore it."

I cut that thought process off quickly. For this to become reality, there's a few prerequisites that need to be fulfilled. First, Darla has to care about dirt. She doesn't. Second, she needs to actually notice when anything gets done. She never does. She goes to school and her room is a disaster. She comes home to a clean room. To her, both look the same. 

I closed the drawer with the newly cleaned skirt in it. Doing laundry, cleaning the house, and cooking dinner will just have to be my vomit on the floor story until, twenty years from now, she realizes that these household chores don't get done by magic or in a dream. 

Since Becoming a Parent I Have Lost...

The minute I become a mom, I immediately started losing things. My keys, phones, shoes, and my sanity were among the top things that went first. This was to be expected. I had been warned about this. I was prepared to become a little absentminded when Darla was born. I wasn't prepared for how drastic of a shift it was going to be. I have lost a lot over the years.

I've lost...

1. My ability to remember anything, specifically names: I've heard that Will Ferrell remembers the name of every person he meets. This makes him an absolute delight to be around. (Full disclosure, I just spent two minutes staring at this screen trying to remember his name). I'm not Will Ferrell. I've already forgotten your name before you've finished saying it. It's not because I wasn't paying attention. I just don't have that retention anymore. Believe me, it's frustrating, especially since I used to be able to recall EVERYTHING that happened to me. Want to know the date of that one time we drank 40s together in a tunnel and I fell off a six foot wall while singing "(You Gotta) Fight for Your Right (To Party)?" That was January 28, 1996. And I could tell you the name of the homeless man who bought us that beer that night. Now, I can't even remember the names of my brothers and sisters without having to think for a minute. 

2. My sense of style: I've made many regrettable fashion choices in my day. The mom bob and matching cardigan sets my Senior of high school being one of them. Despite my many mistakes, I, at least, tried. Since I have to consider what my kids wear so much, I barely give my style 20% of the attention I used to. People may judge me if my kids are dressed like crap. If I look like crap, however, they chalk it up to exhaustion. So, instead, I use up the entire clothing budget for my kids. I buy them the cutest things (that I wish were made in my size). I fold them nicely in their drawers so they can wear them to school the next day. In the morning, a fight ensues and they decide the clothes they had begged for the day before are uncomfortable. I give up and they go to school wearing the basketball shorts covered in pizza grease and ripped dinosaur shirt with the chocolate ice cream stain that looks like poop. The clothes remain unworn until they are just small enough to look awful. 

3. Your ability to form a coherent thought: Have you ever eavesdropped on a conversation between parents while there kids are around? It's the worst, with so many false starts and stops. There's always the potential for a really great story to be told, but you will never find out how it pans out. Right after the parent gives the backstory about the one time their mom had a close encounter with Ted Bundy, they have to pause so they can stop their kid from biting a baby. When they come back, the Ted Bundy story is all but forgotten and the conversation has moved on. I have a lot of friends who are parents, but I know very little about them due to these constant interruptions

4. My personal bubble: When I was a little girl, I would sit at my moms feet and pull her stockings. I liked how the friction of the rough fabric felt between my index finger and thumb. She would swat me away, but I would come back immediately like a house fly to a dinner plate. I feel like I'm paying penance for this annoyingness. This all started with pregnancy, which was when I first realized my body wasn't my own. I had no control over the kicks and flips that occurred in my uterus, which would sometimes cause my to pee when they'd kick my bladder. Then there was breast feeing, which I didn't love. It felt awful to be an on-demand milk factory, which I felt a lot of shame around since a lot of women loved it. Now that my kids are years removed from weening, they still view my body as their personal jungle gym. I get kick in the head and boobs multiple times a day. 

6. My listlessness and boredom: Boredom is a luxury. You have to have a lot of downtime in order to experience it. I was very bored before having kids. I was sick of all the TV shows, the books, the restaurants, and the bars. I would stay home every night and waste all the time. I could've written countless books with all the time I had. I could've gone to every museum in Los Angeles dozens of times a year. I could've seen every movie without having to break the bank on a sitter. I had the time and I did nothing with it. Oddly enough, I have no time, now, but I live with so much more purpose. My downtime is spent more productively. Nights out, even if they are just spent walking around aimlessly, are a lot more fun than they were before I had kids. Since every day is so wild and out of control, I also never know what hilarious things my kids are going to do. They may come out of of the bathroom covered in black eyeliner. They might even decide to sing a song from Hamilton AND include all the cuss words. There's no time for boredom here.

There has been a lot of things I've lost since becoming a parent. Some of it has been hard to weather and difficult to get used to Ultimately, it's all worth it because the one thing I didn't lose was joy. In fact, my joy has increased exponentially. Although I can't see this in those moments where I miss my memory or my shopping trips, at the end of the day I'm able to remember that whatever has been lost has been replaced with something even more meaningful. 

Green Smoothie on the Bathroom Floor

I cried as I cleaned up green smoothie off the bathroom floor. Inside the cup, the child-sized serving seemed so small. "Is that really two servings of vegetables," I wondered. Splashed across the tiles, it looked like a gallon of green sludge. Someone jiggled the bathroom door's handle and knocked. They had jiggled it three times before that.

"Just a second," I yelled for the fourth time as I used up all the paper towels in the dispenser to clean up the smoothie. 

"Mommy," Darla yelled from the toilet. "I got pee on my underwear."

"No, Darla," I moaned. "Why? Why now? I don't have clothes for you. You'll just have to deal with the wet until we get home."

The day had been one of those days that spiral out of control very quickly. Darla was two and a half. I was pregnant, in the throes of morning sickness. We both had colds. I had brought her to the mall to get smoothies to pretend that eating more vitamins would have an affect on our sicknesses. We had struggled our way through the mall. She had tantrums every other minute. We had just gotten the smoothies when Darla decided she needed to pee urgently. I brought her to the bathroom where she immediately threw her smoothie across the floor. This takes us up to the part where she peed on her underwear.

I cleaned up the smoothie; I was only tempted a few times to just leave it there. I went to flush the automatic toilet. I couldn't figure out how to do it.

"Fuck it," I thought as I wiped tears from my eyes. I opened the door to find a woman huffing and puffing, holding her five year old's hand. 

"I'm sorry," I said. Hoping for sympathy, I followed it up with, "my daughter threw her smoothie all over the floor so I was cleaning it up. And I can't get the toilet to flush."

She pushed passed me, dragging her son behind her. As the door closed, I got a glimpse of her glaring at me as she flushed the toilet. The door closed. I sat there stunned and then I crumbled.  

That image of her giving me the meanest look at such a low point has stuck with me for years. At that moment, I just really wanted a sympathetic smile or a some sort of camaraderie. Maybe she could smile and say, "believe me, I know how that goes."  

To that mother, I was a total burden and had made her day more difficult. In her mind, she may have thought I was luxuriating in the bathroom; scrolling through Facebook while my kids had a party with her smoothie. There's no way she could no the full story. Or, maybe she's just a rude woman. I have no idea and I can't even venture a guess as to which scenario is more accurate. 

I remember this moment whenever I feel incredibly put out by a stranger. When someone's taking their time in the checkout line or isn't ready to order by the time they get to the front of the line at the coffee shop. Dealing with these things is a part of living in a world and it's not that big of a deal. Not everyone is going to do things the way I want them to. They might move at a slower pace. They may be having a terrible day, so they're distracted and forgot to think about their order while in line. I have no idea. I just know that the image of my face huffing and puffing in irritation is not the one I want to imagine this stranger having burned in their memory. 

As for the woman who glared at me when all I wanted was sympathy, I get it. She might have had a rough day, too. She was at a mall with a kid so the chances were high that we were having very similar experiences. Maybe, someday, I can let go of that image in my mind. For now, though, I'd like to just remember her as that rude woman who dismissed me since I'm not as evolved as a person as I would like to be.

Rube Goldberg Parenting

Sometimes, the theme of my life being so much easier before having kids can be overwhelming and I wonder if my stories are too negative. Maybe it gets to tiresome to hear or read about it. Do I focus too much on the negative? There's so much good having kids has brought to my life. I laugh at things much harder now because I have more to laugh about. I have much more interesting conversations both with my kids and other people since they were born. I feel an overwhelming sense of contentment over the most mundane things that previously would've gone unnoticed by me before. Sitting on the floor and making up stories on a Saturday night is better than any amazing restaurant I could go to on a similar night pre-kids.

There are times, though, when the kid energy gets to be too much and all I want to do is go back to the nights when I could eat dinner without worrying about the kids or being interrupted every time I try to eat my cacio e pepe. As far as themes in my essays, the good memories don't lend themselves well to the flow of my stories and come across as too self-congratulatory. Also, there are just times when I have a head cold and all I can see is the negative because my mind and body are too focused on how uncomfortable I am. 

Today is one of those sick days when I miss the pre-kid days. Specifically, I miss the routine of my previous life. I could go months without a single interruption to my set schedule. Maybe once every six months I would get sick and it would throw things off for a couple of days, but it would be easy to get right back to where I was before. 

Now, I have about a week or two of stasis before everything is turned on its head. In those times, everything is calm. I feel like I can be a present parent. Positive reinforcement is our parenting style. We reward with marbles. Once they earn enough marbles, they get to watch TV on the weekends. If they don't earn enough marbles, there's no TV. (I ALWAYS make sure they earn enough marbles). I have much more patience and listen to the kids complaints about one another with complete attentiveness. I, then, respond thoughtfully and strategize ways to make things easier in the future. I brag to myself about how amazing of a parent I am and wonder why all parents are doing things the way I'm doing them. 

Since parenting is a rube goldberg device, it takes one sickness or vacation to decimate my world of mindful parenting. Negative reinforcement creeps its way back in. Privileges are being stripped away left and right and they're in timeouts multiple times a night. Once that cycle starts, it's hard to go back to the marble system because, in a fit of frustration, I revoked all their TV time for the coming weekend. (And I berate myself for punishing both them and myself. How am I supposed to entertain them for a whole 48 hours?). Everything is frustrating at these times. I continuously get upset with myself for not being that mindful queen I was in the previous paragraph. I get overwhelmed by the feeling that I'm failing them as a parent. 

There are times when I let myself go down this path; to focus on the negatives of my parenting. Other times, I can pull through the haze of a head cold or frustration and find the bits of parenting I did right. I remember that I apologized for losing my cool in the morning and how I had a productive conversation with Darla about it. How I still managed to make her lunch despite feeling so tired. Or how hard Jude and I laughed when he showed me a cool new trick he learned. Even when things are more frustrating, there's still good. 

I can, also, shift my thinking on how I view this constant flux of parenting. Before having kids, I was rigid and very committed to my routines. Now, as a parent, those routines are much more fluid and prone to change. Maybe being immovable wasn't the most fulfilling way to be. I definitely have been forced out of my comfort zone and have learned that the world doesn't fall apart if I have an off day. Somedays, I can embrace how fluid life is and don't miss the pre-kid days. Then again, it would be really nice if I could swing an actual sick day every once in awhile.

When I was a Kid...

Every parent has the story of how much better her kid has it than she had it when she was a kid. The kids will never understand what it feels like to shovel snow barefoot while battling a stomach flu, which is something that mom did almost every other day (even in the summer). It's a way that us parents can toot our own horns while ignoring the fact that we may have just screamed at our kids that morning for not putting their shoes on fast enough. If they think that screaming is bad, they have no idea how bad it feels to fashion their shoes out of paper, glue, and pinecones every day before school. 

For my dad, his stories all focused on his days as a depression-era kid in Harlem. He was so poor that he had to buy himself a flashlight at Christmas; if he didn't do that there would be no presents for him under his family's non-existent Christmas tree. He would swim with rats in the Harlem River because he didn't have a pool. He joined the Seminary just so he could have three meals a day. With those memories burned into his brain, he looked at me and my siblings and called us "Rich Kids" because we always had food to eat and beds to sleep in. We even, sometimes, got Hostess Cupcakes. 

My family did live really comfortably (amazingly despite the fact that there was twelve of us). We went out to eat every Friday, sometimes got new clothes, and were bought to the best hotels to sneak into so we could use their pools. I wouldn't be being true to myself as a parent, however, if I didn't compare my life to my kids and think of all the ways they had it better than me.

1. They get kiddy pools instead of trashcans: When we weren't able to make it to the local hotel to borrow their pool, my dad would drag out a dirty trashcan, rinse it out a little, fill it up with water, and stick my sister and I in it. Sometimes, these pool trips were timed to happen right when the high school up the street let out for the day. We'd gleefully bob up and down, oblivious of all the students walking by with looks of disgust on their faces. My little prince and princess only get the best with inflatable swimming pools. 

2. They get multiple baths a week: My dad would turn off the hot water heater Sunday through Friday. The only exception for this was when dishes needed to be cleaned. He claimed this was to save on the water bill (which he would negate whenever he filled up a trashcan full of water for us to swim in). This left the only viable day for bathing to be Saturday. My dad would ceremoniously turn on the hot water heater and my mom would fill the tub with warm water. My dad would then turn off the hot water heater. From oldest to youngest, we'd all use the same bathwater. As the youngest, I was left with the dingy bath. My kids take so many baths a week. My childhood self would cry with envy if she knew how often they got to luxuriate in clean, warm water.

3. They have their own rooms: The house I grew up in wasn't small. After my parents made additions to it when they had six kids and counting, there were four rooms available for kids to use. When there are nine kids in the house at any given moment, the option of having your own room in a house as big as even that wasn't really on the table. Sometimes, we'd triple up in rooms. Living in such close quarters can make one feel very irritable, which is why there were so many fights breaking out in my house. When the arguments would begin, we were told to go out on the lawn and duke it out. My kids have their own rooms, which they can go to in order to get away from each other. Unfortunately, they refuse to use this option and continuously invade each other's spaces until massive fights breakout. Luckily for them, we intercede and don't force them to death matches on a daily basis.

There are so many different ways that my kids have it better than me. I believe that parenting is a process that evolves overtime and with each successive generation, maybe things will continue to get better. Maybe our tolerance for kids being kids will grow. And maybe, in two or three generations, my descendants might finally get the benefit of having their own, fancy pool. 

Family Trips

Vacations used to be relaxing. I would sleep until noon, read books, and sit still for more than five minutes at a time. Vacations with kids are not times to recoup and catch up on much needed sleep. If anything, they're all about living more intensely than you ever would in your every day life. Someone recently said that we need to take the word vacation out of the equation entirely and call them "Family Trips."

You can't sit on the beach and stare at the ocean for hours. You have to get up and build the fifteenth sandcastle of the day. You can't read a book because you need to scan the shoreline for sharks and to make sure your kids aren't drowning. After spending 12 hours baking in the sun all your body is screaming for is a good night sleep, but this isn't possible because the kids are out of their comfort zone and will go to bed late, wake up numerous times throughout the night crying, and wake up extra early. There's no such thing as tiring your kids out while on a family trip. They're an endless font of energy and enthusiasm. 

For our family trip this year we went to the La Jolla Beach & Tennis club, which my mom brings us to for two days every summer. Despite the exhaustion, it's the best two days of summer. We don't wear shoes the entire time because we're bouncing from the beach to the pool and then back to the beach. We find shells on the beach, search for sea creatures, watch seagulls steal our food, and bury kids in the sand. There's no need to even leave the club and our car sits in the parking lot without moving the entire time.

Of any experience I have, it's probably the only time of the year that I'm actually fully immersed in the present. My email account is set to vacation mode. My kids are right in front of me, so I don't need to check my phone to see if there are any emergencies. I, for once, feel like a decent mom who might actually be a tiny bit fun for my kids to be around. But don't worry, I'm back in Los Angeles and back to my boring mom ways, sitting my kids in front of the TV so I can have five minutes to think. 

The Pee Pee Ghost

I was a chronic bedwetter until the age of seven. Every night, even if my parents brought me to the bathroom in the middle of the night, I would wake up with soaked sheets. It would even happen at sleepovers. (I'm still grateful to that one mother who discreetly changed the sheets without letting any of the other girls know). 

My dad, for whom the cessation of bedwetting was his white whale, devised a brilliant scare tactic to get it to stop. Since he knew how petrified I was of spirits, he told me about the pee pee ghost. This ghost, he told me, would hear an alarm whenever I peed my bed. He would rush to my bedside and drink up the pee. 

"This is why you should never pee in your bed," he said. "Unless you want to see that ghost every night."

Since he was, apparently, oblivious of my deep shame surrounding the issue, he believed my bedwetting was due to obstinance. For him it was something I had complete control over. He must have believed I loved the feeling of cold, sticky pee in the middle of the night, as well. The story didn't work because, contrary to popular belief, I had little control over it. After hearing his store, I felt ashamed, uncomfortable, AND terrified; the story just intensified how deeply unsatisfying peeing the bed was.

I believe many, if not most, kids are afraid of ghosts. My fear, though, was all-consuming. When I wasn't worrying about diseases (hypochondria being equally important to my life), I was wondering when I would see my first ghost and the horror that would ensure in my life once I did. Would they force me into a cellar and have to spend the rest of my life with them moaning in my face? Would the whisk me off to hell?

It's with this level of anxiety around the supernatural that I watched the Exorcist for the first (and last) time in the fifth grade. When the movie ended, I ran to the bathroom and threw up. It was years before I was able to sleep in my own bed, again.

Which brings me to what I think is the root of my intense, abidings fears around ghosts that persists to this day. I was raised Catholic. I had a firm belief in heaven, hell, God, and Satan. Since there were so many sins to account for, I inevitably sinned dozens of times a day. The vision that I would be going to heaven seemed more and more unlikely every day that I was alive; hell seemed like the only feasible alternative. With this idea of good and evil, I formulated ideas that ghosts were evil and demonic. Their presence was literally hell on earth. 

Darla isn't being raised Catholic. She doesn't have a notion of heaven or hell. She has no concept of pure evil. She believes that there are very scary, very dangerous things in the world, but ghosts aren't one of them. She thinks ghosts are benevolent creatures who watch over her every night. She doesn't mind the thought of a ghost sitting next to her while she sleeps because they have her best interest in mind. For her, ghosts are guardian angels. (And I'm aware that the Catholic Church has a concept of guardian angels. Those scared me, too). 

"My ghost is named Lina," she said. "She helps keep me safe. She helps me win things. Like, she was supposed to help me win the pinewood derby competition, but she couldn't because she was too busy helping Jude not be afraid of the bounce house. And that's ok. That was important she helped him."

I doubt she really believes in Lina, but it does stand that she's not repelled by the idea of ghosts. She does have fear surrounding it at times, but she hunts down that fear, looks it in the eye, and is determined to dominate it. For me, when I was a kid, this would've been impossible. I couldn't look it in the eye.

This isn't to say she doesn't have things she is afraid of. She is terrified of ALL insects, which I guess is a bit more complicated because they're everywhere. I don't know which is worse, though. I will say that at least there's such things as exterminators; ghost busters, as far as I can tell, only exist in movies or on crappy cartoons from the 80's.

Self-Care in the Summer

It is a huge challenge to find time for myself during the summer. The simplicity of school dropoffs and pickups, where there were opportunities for alone-time, are gone. Now, I have a shadow who is asking a steady stream of questions from morning until night. There's not much time to think let alone stare at a wall. After days of spinning my wheels on ways I can find alone time, I have figured out a few workarounds to this problem. 

1. Get a root canal- Nothing allows for much needed peace and quiet than having someone filling your numbed mouth with metal. To drown out the sound of the drill, just turn on a really great podcast. Try not to listen to anything too emotional (ie Invisibilia) like I did. The dentist will mistake your misty eyes for responses to discomfort. Your mouth will be too full of dental tools to be able to explain that you're just feeling a lot of intense emotions. 

2. Go to the gym- All year long, you may have been avoiding the gym at all costs. Now that schools out, you're taking full advantage of the YMCA's free daycare and working towards running a 5k. 

3. Make an appointment with your therapist- It has been awhile since you've had a chance to catch up with your therapist. Now's a great time to schedule back to back sessions. You can talk about yourself while your kid plays with therapeutic toys in the next room over. It's a win/win

4. Schedule your annual checkup- The last time you had your cholesterol checked was before your kids were born. It's about time you got this done. You may have been able to do this any other time in the past six years, but right now just really feels like the right time to get that figured out.

All of these afford great opportunities for you to find time away from your kids. It's just an added bonus that you're getting all your self-care (that you've been putting off for the past nine months) taken care of. It's good for your sanity and your relationship with your kid.

Don't Take My Kids Word for It

Some old school Grandma's love to say that babies are manipulative; they are born with this skill. They know your weaknesses and they will exploit it every step of the way. You look at your newborn with her big eyes and sweet innocence and wonder how anyone could believe her to be so devious. She's far too little to be capable of such scheming. Fast forward six months and many sleepless nights, you start to wonder whether the notion that newborns are Machiavellian is more accurate than it originally seemed. You start to wonder if your baby is trying to systematically deconstruct your sanity through exhaustion and walls of screams. 

The theory of kids being manipulative is one that I give credence to when things are rough. When it seems that everything my kids do tends towards destructive or inconvenient ends. Why else would they dump any entire carton of milk on the kitchen floor right after I mopped it if not to make my life hell? It seems like they're trying to wear me down so I have no energy to resist their demands to go to the park or a movie, eat ten scoops of ice cream, and stay up until midnight. After a good nights sleep or even fifteen minutes to decompress I realize how ludicrous this idea is. I go back to seeing my kids as just kids.

One thing I do believe, though, is that my kids are 100% unreliable. Their word should never be trusted. Here are a few ways in which my kids consistently lack follow-through. 

1. "If you let me watch one more episode, I will go right to bed." TV is sometimes an absolute godsend. It keeps my kids occupied while I get work done or read. They are captivated by the screen and will not ask any questions while it's on. The TV is often good leverage, as well. If they want to watch TV, they have to earn it through chores or positive behavior. TV watching isn't a given. Unfortunately, their obsession with the screen also leads to some of the greatest meltdowns on record. The minute it's turned off, they lose their minds. Even allowing them to watch that extra episode does no good. Despite the promise that they will make the transition away from the TV easy, they will always lose their shit. 

2. "Ok, I understand we have five minutes left at the park. We'll be ready to go when the timer goes off." No matter how many warnings I give them, how many times they acknowledge my warnings, or how many times they assure me they'll be ready to go when the timer goes off, they are always so shocked when it's time to leave the park. With all the feet dragging, we always end up staying at the park for an extra fifteen minutes. This is why I always set the timer fifteen minutes early. I know your game, kids. You will never outwit me on this one. (Until you learn how to read time. Then, you will totally be able to match wits with me). 

3. I won't try to come into the bathroom the minute you go in there."  My kids will immediately try enter the bathroom the minute I close the door no matter how many times they promise me they won't. If I'm in the shower and I forgot to lock the door, they will come in, open the shower door, and talk and talk and talk. If I remembered to lock the door, they will knock and knock and knock and yell until that door is opened. 

Kids are completely unreliable. 10 times out of 10, they will go back on their word. Sometimes, they'll even renege before they're done saying the promise. ("Ok mommy, I won't knock over this stack of laundry you just folded," which is said as they push it off the bed). The crazy thing is that I think they mostly have every intention of doing what they say they're going to do. They just happen to realize that they agreed to something that has really crappy terms and they want to change their minds. 

Background Checks for Babysitters are Overrated

I am the youngest of twelve kids. At any given time, my parents had five to seven kids under the age of ten. My mom was a full-time mom and insurance agent. My dad was a full-time sleeper/drinker and (barely) part-time insurance man. Babysitters were only inevitable. My mom needed to work and my dad needed to party, so my parents looked to a babysitting agency to help them find quality people to keep an eye on us while they were busy. 

Watching five kids at once for the same price as watching one kid wasn't anyone's ideal babysitting job. They may as well just open a daycare. For that reason, all the primo caretakers passed on watching my siblings. Even the subpar ones, who would probably just watch tv the whole time, knew they'd be better off without a paycheck than having to watch so many children. What was left was a rotating door of women who seemed like ex-cons or were well on their way to becoming ex-cons. My mom, desperate to keep us all fed, accepted whatever the agency sent her way. 

Most of these sitters would invite their boyfriends over and yell. This was the most of mild behaviors in which they were engaged. These were easy to turn a blind eye to. Others were drunk or on drugs and would try to party with my older brothers and sisters. One woman just left in the middle of day without telling my mom who came home to a houseful of wild children. Another woman would discuss attacking her boyfriend with my siblings and ask for their input. 

By the time I came around, my mom had given up on the babysitting agency since there was a wealth of teenagers to watch us younger kids. My brothers and sisters were not much better than the babysitters, but at least they were free. They would routinely forget about their charges and leave in the middle of their shifts. Since they were just kids themselves, they had every right to be the worst babysitters in the world.

The only time sitters were necessary at that point were those hours when the teenagers were at school, my mom was at work, and my dad was sleeping. Finding steady sitters to watch the one to two small kids in the house was much easier and they were much better quality than the others. 

My babysitters was with us since I was a baby. She would come every morning when my mom left and leave as soon as the junior and high schooler kids were home. I loved this sitter. She became a part-time mom to me and I would often contemplate running away from home to live with her. I thought she understood me better than my mom.

That's not to say, however, that she was a flawless sitter. There were things my mom was dismayed to find out when I was older, specifically an incident that happened when I was in Kindergarten. 

One day, I decided I didn't want to go to school and told my sitter as much. To my surprise, she told me I didn't have to go to school. She said she'd take me on an adventure. Next thing I knew, I was in Tijuana buying chiclets and eating chips in a restaurant. I was having a much better time than if I went to school until she asked me to try her beer. 

"If you drink it now, you won't drink it when you're older," she told me. 

Around the time I was offered my first beer. 

I knew what beer was and I knew that I wasn't supposed to touch it. I wanted to maintain my "good girl" status. Drinking beer would demote me from that elevation for sure. She encouraged me a couple more times before my lip began to quiver. Then she gave up. I decided that skipping school wasn't as much fun as I thought it was. (Later, in High School, I would revise this idea. I decided that ditching school was the most amazing thing ever). 

We went back to Chula Vista and I didn't tell my mom where we had gone. I knew that she wouldn't have been happy. I didn't want to get in trouble. 

I still loved that sitter with all my heart after that, but I realized that day that she wasn't a mom stand-in. My mom would've never asked me to drink the beer. She, also, wouldn't have let me ditch school. My mom, also, was there every day and loved me unconditionally. No other person could take her place. And, despite all the nefarious characters watching us, we made it to adulthood relatively unscathed. 

I Need to Keep Everything for Myself

A small child (maybe three years old) sits in her car seat in the back of the car. She's crying. The mom, who happens to be recording the tears, asks her what's wrong.

"I'm just so sad," she wails. "There are so many kids who don't have anything. I want to give them all my toys to help them."

This isn't a real scenario because I don't want to point out any specific video online since I'm not taking issue with the existence of such footage. It's incredibly sweet and endearing and heartbreaking when a child is so empathetic. There are numerous videos of children saying truly lovely, heart-warming, and altruistic things. I watch these videos and shed tears not just for their cuteness, but for the fact that my kids are not saying cute, kind shit like that. 

Here's what happens in my car. After listening to an NPR segment on homelessness, Darla asked some questions. 

"Why can't the people stay in their homes?" she asked.

"Because they don't have enough money to stay," I said.

"Why don't they have money?" She asked.

"There are countless reasons," I answered. "They can't find a job. They're sick. The job they have doesn't pay enough. It's so sad. That's why people who have enough should give back to them."

Darla looked thoughtful for a minute. I waited for her to offer to give all her unopened Christmas gifts away.

"No," She said. "I think I need all my money. I don't think I'll be giving them any."

I looked at her in the rearview mirror. I, apparently, had a long road ahead of me before I had a model of true altruism in the backseat. I tried to explain the idea to her that people with give to people without; that the only way we can thrive in this world is to lift each other up. I looked to see whether any of my words were sinking in. There was no indication that they had. This might be a more difficult lesson than can be learned in a five minute car ride to Trader Joe's. 

Sometimes, the words out of her mouth are truly morbid. She recently even foretold my untimely death.

"When you die when I'm a teenager, do I have to take care of Jude?" she asked.

I wondered if she knew something that I didn't know. And when she said teenager, did she mean late teens or early teens? I wanted to know if I have seven years or thirteen years left. Time was of the essence since the the clock was already ticking. I made a mental note to get all those logistics worked out before then. 

"Oh man," I said uncertainly. "If something happens to me when you're a teenager, I'll make sure that you're taken care of."

I don't think kids come out as little angels as much as we'd all like to believe that they do. Or, rather, they aren't born with the language to express their humanity as well as adults can. They are also at their core small, self-interested creatures intent on survival; they are the center of their universe. Just look at kids first interactions with one another. The majority of the time, all they do is steal each other toys and hoard everything. Parents interject themselves, flustered and embarrassed that they brought such little monsters to the park. The Parents try to coax their kids to apologize to one another all the while they give breathless apologies themselves.

The first time this happened with Darla, it felt like I'd failed the world. I wanted to hole up and never go on another playdate, again. After a lot of energy and lesson teaching, the sharing of toys eventually began. Now, she shares her toys all the time. She's incredibly kind to everyone. She always makes sure people feel included. She actually does give her stuff away. If she has money when she passes a homeless person, she gives it to them. 

This is how I know that what she said in the backseat, when she declared she needs everything for herself, were just words. Those words didn't match what I know about her. Darla, like all kids, just needs our help in figuring out how to direct this wonderful energy. It, also, doesn't hurt when they cute, video-worthy shit about it along the way, but that will come in time. Something tells me, though, that a 20 year old isn't quite as cute saying it as a six year old, so I hope they start sometime soon and I'm able to catch it on film.   

Ask a Dog if You're Living Your Best Life

If you're like me, you know that your own mind is your worst enemy. Anytime you start feeling good about a decision you've made, you realize you've made a horrible mistake. You should've bought a chicken sandwich instead of a steak sandwich. Choosing steak made you look over-indulgent and like a bit of a snob. 

You hear Groucho Marx's quote, "I don’t care to belong to any club that will have me as a member" echoing through everything you do. This, also, leads you to question the intentions of everyone around you. Since your mind and adult humans are such dubious sources for self-worth, you have to look elsewhere. I have found that the following three sources act as great mirrors to reflect back my worth as a human. 

1. Dogs- I won't say animals in general because a lot of animals have skewed opinions. Cats are always going to make you feel like shit and dolphins will heap on gratuitous, unwarranted praise. Dogs, however, have a sixth sense for basic human value. I find that most my interactions with dogs are mediocre. The average response is a subtle tail wag and a casual hand sniff. There's no jumping for joy or boisterous, excited barks. They know I'm not a threat, but they also know I will not be playing fetch with them anytime soon. It's not great, but they at least don't think I am the spawn of Satan (contrary to my own beliefs, so that's good to know). 

2. Kids- I will put all kids in this category (although kids above eleven are disqualified due to general apathy). Let's say babies are the gold standard. One giggle from a baby is like having a class of first graders jump for joy when you walk into their room. I can make babies crack smiles and laugh pretty hard if the mood is right; I can, also, keep them pretty calm. They don't, however, roll on the ground with belly-busting laughter nor do they cry the minute I hold them. Much like dogs, babies don't regard me as a clown or a cold blooded murderer; I'm right in the middle in the spectrum of reactions.

3.  Electronics- Like the previous categories, not all electronics are created equally. Obviously, the opinion of a computer weighs much more heavily than a toaster. (That being said, should the toaster and the computer join forces and burn your toast, then you're probably not heading in the right direction). My computer is fine. It's slow sometimes and pinwheels at least a few times a day, but it doesn't frustrate me to the point that I want to throw it out of the window. Does it sometimes erase my work? Yes. Does it sometimes stream my movies without interruption? Yes. Does it always do these things? No. Again, I am not the best, I'm not the worst. Electronics think I'm an average person.  

So, animals, babies, and electronics have neutral opinions about you. Don't feel bad. This is the safest place to be. You should probably be worried if all the three aforementioned creatures have a ticker tape parade for you whenever you enter a room. Remember, "the higher they rise, the harder they fall."

Butterly Love

Within two minutes of Darla's birth, I thought, "oh shit, I'm going to have to do that all over again someday." I didn't know when, but I knew for certain that I was going to get pregnant, throw up for five months, complain for the entire pregnancy, and give birth to another baby. I, also, knew it was going to be a boy. I wanted to share with that little baby girl the joy of having a sibling with whom she can both bond and talk shit about their clueless, ass backwards parents. 

Coming from a large family has defined almost everything about me. It's the thing I mention when I need an ice breaker. I try to act really cool about it, but really I'm totally proud of it. It was mostly amazing to have so many funny, smart siblings and even more amazing that most of them are really funny, smart sisters. Most times, people look at me incredulously and then ask if we're Irish Catholic.

Greg and I are not Irish Catholic, so we've stopped after that two. I cannot fathom taking care of any more than two kids. (Actually, to be quite honest, I can't fathom taking care of even one kid. How we've managed to make it this far is pure chance. I trip my ways through the days, so there's no reason they should be fairing as well as they are).

The day Darla fully grasped that having a younger sibling is exhausting. 

When I found out I was pregnant with Jude, Darla's little brother, everything was exciting. Darla was thrilled to have a younger sibling. She even decided to name him "Butter." Two weeks before he was born, we realized that we forgot to explain to her that "brother" meant "boy." She'd operated under the assumption that he was a girl. 

"Butter is not a boy! She's a girl," she wailed at the kitchen table.

We had no time to warm her up to the idea of adding a boy to the family. He was born and, rather than presenting Darla with the gift of a younger sibling, I had given her a burden of a completely unrelatable boy. When we left the hospital, she lay facedown on the hospital floor and had the biggest tantrum we'd ever seen her have. In fact, that tantrum never officially ended. Sure, she takes breaks to eat, sleep, and go to school, but the frustration she feels having a younger sibling is as intense today as it was three years ago. To add to the pile of chaos, Jude isn't that pleased with her, either. Their days are spent complaining about the other one and screaming at each other non-stop. 

That's the part I forgot when I decided to have more than one kids. The fights between siblings are profound. My sister, Sarah, and I would have throw down, MMA level fights with illegal moves like hair and ear pulling. My mom would just look at us as we fought and tell us to take it outside. At that point, it was a fight to the death, which my sister usually won. 

Beyond the fights, Sarah waged a full psychological warfare on me as well. She knew how to subtly drive me insane while rendering me powerless to fight back. We'd sit in the back seat and she'd hold her index finger an inch from my face. I would tell her to stop. She wouldn't stop. Then I would tell on her and I'd end up being the one who was punished. (Really, my parents' hands were tied. They couldn't really tell her to stop. She wasn't "technically" touching me).

Darla, as the older sibling, has perfected this technique. While Jude resorts to fists and kicks, Darla is more deliberate. Last week, they watched a swarm of bees in the bush in front of our house. I told them to back away from the bush, going wild in my head with panic.

"Jude, I think I see a ball in the bush," Darla whispered when she thought I was out of earshot. "Go get the ball."

"DARLA!" I yell. "I know what you're doing!"

She looked at me innocently and walked away. As a younger sibling myself, it's my duty to defend Jude. (I guess it's also my duty as his mom, but I feel his pain and frustration acutely having lived through it). 

Somedays, they surprise me and seem like they might actually really like each other. I watched them yesterday morning as they worked together to make Darla's bed. I looked in on them and smiled. It was what I had imagined they would do that day I first gave birth to Darla. It was picture perfect. 

I walked away from the room feeling overwhelmed by relief. Then Greg informed me that this was a classic older sibling move. Let the younger sibling feel welcomed and adored until you've roped them into doing your chores. Then, once it's finished, treat them like the scum you think they are.  Five minutes later, the bed was made and the fighting began. Manipulative or not, I was just happy to see them get along for a few minutes. 

First Day of Summer Camp

On the last day of Kindergarten, we received a book about Darla's first year of school. I was afraid to read it. I knew I would cry uncontrollable. I, of course, cried when I finally worked up the courage to look, but then I saw this self-portrait from her first day of school:

If that's not the most perfect picture of mania and anxiety, then I don't know what is. I believe this picture is an accurate representation of how she felt her first day of Kindergarten. The tight, gritted-teeth smile struggles like a dam holding back a wild torrent of tears. Her eyes are rolled heavenward to help her transport herself somewhere, anywhere else. She also drew herself with a blue beard, which makes sense to me. I feel this way every time I walk into a new situation. I became more bonded to Darla when I saw this picture.

I may have an understanding of her mental space when she's encountering a new experience, but that doesn't mean I'm going to put aside my own anxieties to make it a calm, smooth transition. We stumble into these situations; we're an absolute mess of a mother and daughter.

Today was her first day of Girl Scout summer camp. She was nervous. She woke up early and got herself dressed. She did anxious twirls around the house and giggled. She was ready to go well before we needed to leave. She asked me if there were going to be other new kids there. 

I was nervous. I spent the night before agonizing over how I was going to work out an on-time drop off and wondered endlessly if they would put sunblock on her throughout the day. I was a regimented mess in the morning as I got the kids out the door. I barely talked in the car because I needed to give the road my undivided attention. 

When we arrived at the camp, everything fell apart. Darla almost darted into the street. I yelled at her to get back. She fidgeted. I sighed. She threw her backpack on the floor in the middle of the check-in. I hissed at her to pick it back up. She wanted me to leave immediately. I felt obligated to stay and take pictures like the other parents. She glared at me and told me to leave. I left. No hugs. No high fives. 

I left feeling dejected and like I had failed us both miserably. Drop-off was supposed to be exciting and positive. It wasn't. It was anxiety ridden and clumsy and I wonder if the fact that we didn't hug was going to make her day horrible. I began planning a fun dinner for her and her brother to apologize for being a mess. Then I remembered that first day picture she drew of herself. We are both just terrible at negotiating new beginnings. It gets easier, though. By the end of the summer, I'm sure we'll both be like Darla Chrtie: