Size doesn't matter

My husband is having an affair. I can tell something is going on because he is walking around with a glassy look in his eyes and is distractedly carrying on conversations with me as he surfs the web. No, this affair is not with a woman. It is with a television - a forty two inch LCD flat screen to be exact - that we purchased last night (but did not install, hence the obsessive web-surfing about proper technique). She has already been christened and her name is Old Glory.

For those of you who know me, and my love of television, it's probably pretty surprising to learn that I have fought the fight against this behemoth for so long. You would think I would enjoy watching Survivor and The Amazing Race is sharp detail obsessed as I am with these shows, but I have been quite happy with our little twenty seven inch Toshiba. Hell, I even thought that was too big. The issue I have is not with TV, obviously, but with the invasion of technology into every aspect of our lives and these large TV's represent all the evil that entails.

The gargantuan televisions of today can not even be put in a cabinet that closes for Christ's sake! We live in a very small house and, in addition to feeling that having this TV in our shack is akin to driving a Hummer and living in a trailer, the TV dominates what is our only room for socializing with other adults. With no cabinet to hide it how hard will it be to resist the siren song, "Wouldn't it be more fun to see what's on instead of trying to come up with conversation?" Nothing is a bigger buzzkill than TV at a party. It disturbs me that people mount them on walls so they can never be hidden - even over fireplaces replacing works of art or crappy family portraits. It is going to be exponentially more difficult to have the daily no-you-can't-watch-another-episode-of-Dora fight with my kids with the shadow of this beast looming over my children as they play.

It's not only the size of today's TVs that disturbs me, but the fact that they are everywhere no matter what the size. My oldest one has already suggested that the old TV be put in the room she shares with her sister once Daddy gets his "big TV" - as you can tell, my husband launched a grassroots campaign months ago. Over my cold, dead body. Again, you would think with my love of the tube I'd have one in every room, but I am vehemently opposed to TV in the bedroom, especially for my kids. Aside from making it more difficult to monitor what they watch, I want my kids to play the underpants game and engage in other silliness when in their rooms. And my bedroom is for sleep and other extracurricular activities and while neither are happening much lately with a new baby I can imagine how much less would occur if Jeff Probst permanently took up residence there.

Don't even get me started on TV in cars. I got in a taxi last month and there was TV on the back of the driver's seat! We can't even go a few city blocks without some entertainment. When we bought our van, we had to buy the lower-grade package with only one automatic door because the next level model came with a DVD player - I'd rather it came with a crack dealer. I can not imagine if every single time I got in the car I had to have an argument over whether my kids would watch a show in the five minutes it takes to drive to the post office. Is there a prescription for Xanax included in the lease?

All of this entertainment everywhere does have some good aspects. Long plane flights are more tolerable when you can watch episodes of 30 Rock on direct TV, but what ever happened to reading a book? I think I read five on my flight to Egypt ten years ago after watching the movie - on one screen people! - they offered which I'm sure was something fabulous like Money Train. I want my kids to play dumb backseat games together when they're in the car on long trips. I can still remember kicking my sister's ass at Hangman (sorry K, but you know it's true) and playing Mr. Chinagin. And while I'm sure it will make me have to scream "Don't make me come back there!" way more than I want to I like that a hell of a lot more than looking back at three comatose faces staring at a screen with drool running down their chins.

I am happy for my husband. I haven't seen him this excited about a purchase since we got the dog (also too big). I do have my trepidations about this thing being in my house, but I'll deal with them. If I have to hang a bed sheet over the damn thing when we have guests over, so be it. I will continue to fight the fight of keeping my kids unplugged and interacting even if it drives me to drink (that's not a far trip these days). Let's just hope my husband remembers I gave in about size years from now when we're in a position to be shopping for diamonds...

I'm pissed off

I just had a conference with my middle one's preschool teacher and I am so angry I think I'm going to have an aneurysm. It seems my daughter has a few issues. According to her teacher her fine and large motor skills are somewhat lacking compared to the other children and she doesn't socialize all that much with the other kids. She will engage in parallel play, but doesn't talk much to the other kids when doing so. She is also shy and can be moody. This isn't news to me. I've known for a while that my kid isn't perfect and I could probably spend a little more time with her in the crayon and scissors department. All of which was in my plan now that the baby is a little more scheduled and I'm getting some sleep. Here's what pissed me off. The teacher asked me if I had considered having my child evaluated. WHAT? Let me explain before you think I'm a "not my kid" kind of parent.

To begin, the way large motor skills were evaluated was by examining my daughter's ability to pedal a tricycle. She's not that good at it, admittedly, but I knew full well she had been short-changed in the bike department since I spent all of last summer gigantically pregnant and was a little reluctant to spend a lot of time bent over a tricycle. I figured when the weather got better we would really tackle it since how the hell am I taking my five month old outside with us now when it's thirty degrees out? Then I started to think, what about poor kids who don't even have bikes? Don't they turn into adults who function pretty normally? Or is there a whole population of people who can't get a job because they didn't spend enough time pedaling as a kid?

When we were discussing my kid's lack of socialization skills, the teacher asked me if I had had any playdates with children from the class to increase her exposure to children her own age. Um, isn't that why I pay for her to come here? Frankly, I don't have time or space for playdates. My daughter has school four mornings a week, so now I have to spend my one free morning with her trying to find another kid for her to play with? I live in a tiny house and can barely keep my own children quiet enough for the baby to take a nap, never mind adding another nut job to the mix. And, why the hell did I have all these kids if they can't play with each other? As the child of a working mother, I had few, if any, playdates so I played with my sister and I think I turned out OK.

Now don't think I'm criticizing the teacher for what are very valid observations. Having been a teacher myself I know what it's like trying to figure out what to say during conferences. You don't want to be overly critical, but you don't want to let a potential problem slide by and I thank her for that. I will admit, my kid's fine motor is something I have to keep an eye on and work with her on it. What got me so angry was two-fold.

First, is the fact that evaluation was brought up to blithely. It seems everyone is having their child evaluated these days either for speech or another issue when really, some kids just develop more slowly than others. Why are we so quick to pathologize these differences? I know many, many children are helped by various therapies, so please do not take offense if your child is one of them, but how many other children would have improved on their own eventually without having to have their parents worry themselves to death?

Second, all of this, perhaps in my own mind, was put upon me. It's my fault she isn't riding her bike enough, drawing enough, having enough playdates. The solution seemed to be even more pressure being put on me to structure my day and add more to my to-do list. It made me think back to mothers in the thirties and forties who kicked their kids out of the house trilling, "Go outside and play!" There were no organized activities, these mothers had laundry to do, houses to clean and meals to cook and this was the generation that would eventually put a man on the moon! Maybe my kid would be better at riding her bike if I could kick her outside to do it herself without fear of her being abducted out of my driveway while I folded the laundry. Or do I put everything I need to do on hold in order to do developmentally appropriate crafts with my kids and stay up until all hours of the night doing my housework? I don't think so unless the plan also includes my becoming a meth-head.

My point here is I felt like a freak for wanting to take a wait-and-see approach. The teacher wants to speak again in March, but if my daughter hasn't made any drastic improvements I'm not sure I'll be running to have her checked out. Some things take time and some things the teacher spoke of are never going to change. Regardless of who she is playing with my middle one is never going to be Suzy Sunshine. But you know what? One little girl in the class saves her a seat everyday. I think her moodiness has made her attractively enigmatic. Kind of like the girl who gets all the dates because she doesn't give guys the time of day. Every kid is different and maybe we need to accept that, within, reason, of course. I don't think the answer is parents needlessly beating themselves up or turning their homes into mini-preschools. With a little time and more crayons I'm sure my kid will be fine. But maybe I will look into a child-sized exercise bike...

FILB - Father I'd Like to Befriend

I need to give a shout out to a new species of man out there. This type of man makes me feel a lot better, that my bitching about the difficulties of being a SAHM are not specifically related to my gender, but is a byproduct of a job that is hard as hell. The man of which I speak is the stay -at-home dad.

I met my first SAHD at the park three years ago right after I had my middle one. The lone bull among the cows, he was my savior. As I desperately tried to keep Molly from killing herself on the slide from the confines of a bench where I needed to nurse my newborn, he stepped in, fully able to ignore the infant latched to my breast to ask, "Would you like me to push her on the swing?" How cool is that? We have since struck up a friendship and I have to say having a new perspective on things is refreshing. Forgot a snack? Big deal, we can all share. Kids' clothes don't match since she picked them herself? Who bloody cares (yes, my pal is British and a devoted reader*)?

I have met several more SAHDs over the years and I find this relaxed state of mind a common trait among them. Rather than being in competition for Martyr of the Year, these guys are just enjoying being with their kids and if the kitchen floor doesn't get mopped the world won't end. Gender sort of prevents them from constantly comparing themselves to other mothers, but I don't think they would do it even if they were surrounded by other SAHDs, it's just not in their nature and I think it's incredible.

Now don't think I believe these guys have it made and their lives are a bed of roses. I know they suffer from some gender discrimination. My one friend can't stand it when mothers at the park ask him, "Mommy has the day off?", as if he couldn't possibly be the child's full-time caregiver. It must also be hard to find a peer group. I recently met one dad at Barnes & Noble who I engaged in stay-at-home chatter and he leapt at the opportunity to unburden himself of his parenting insecurities since, it seemed, he had no other colleagues to talk to. It must be akin to being a female kicker on a football team - you belong on the team, your skills are slightly different and it takes a while to fit in.

I love these guys because they are breaking down stereotypes - that if a parent is to stay home it must be the mother. Many of these dads are home because it made financial sense for their families - imagine that. By being out there they are showing people there is actually a choice and, for my son, I thank them. So, fellow moms, the next time you see a dad at the park with his kids, don't assume he's just there so mom can get her nails done. He might be at work, too. A smile and a "hello" might be all he needs to let him know he's one of us and you might find a friend who inspires you to stop beating the crap out of yourself.

* My friend Adam Keeble, mentioned above, has a fabulous book coming out on June 7th titled, "I Got You, Babe" about his experience as a SAHD. He was kind enough to share the manuscript with me and IT ROCKS.

Groundhog Day

I swear to God if I wipe off the kitchen counter one more time I'm going to throw myself off a bridge. It seems I only just get the kitchen clean from breakfast and the counter is once again covered, this time, in ketchup and apple peel from lunch and the sink full of empty juice cups. The same goes for the bathroom. Didn't I just replace that toilet paper and wipe down the sink that was covered in violently pink princess toothpaste and shaving cream? And the floors - are my children pretending to eat their graham crackers and secretly crumbling them all over the floor in an effort to drive me insane? Never mind the dog hair - I think I've vacuumed enough miles to earn me a flight to Tahiti. This is my day, everyday. Remember that movie with Bill Murray, Groundhog Day? That's the story of my life.

This is the part no one tells you about being a stay-at-home mom, that your days begin to blend together in a series of vignettes including school drop-off, school pick-up, peanut butter and laundry. The work is seemingly endless and repetitive, like fighting the tide. The real kicker is, if you do your job well, no one notices. No one will notice that your house is clean, your kids are clothed and fed and not killing one another. That's how things should be, it's the status quo. No one but other moms know the blood, sweat and tears that go into creating such banality. I feel at the end of each day like I've run a marathon and know I only have to do it again tomorrow as each member of my family greets the day hungry and in need of clean underwear.

On my better days I realize that this treadmill of activity, this being here, is what bonds me to my kids. They are my work, and while no one else may notice, I know that today I helped my oldest learn to tie her shoes (almost) and that my middle one loves hand massages. I will be here when my chubby baby finally conquers his girth and rolls over for the first time. The drudgery is punctuated by these seemingly small events that rock my world. By being here I hope my children remember these things that we shared. Right now I am the center of their universe.

I know in my future is the question that I fear most. The day my daughters ask me, "But Mom, what do you do?" How belittling to list the million insignificant things that fill my day. How frustrating that they won't understand until they have children of their own. That time is far off for now and I am glad. My movie might be Groundhog Day for now, but at least to my children, I am the star.

The Boy in the Bubble

In case you didn't know it, your house is a death trap. Sure it may be safe for you and other mature bipeds, but your domicile is a gauntlet of terror for your fragile progeny. Behold the razor sharpness of your coffee table. Ponder the oceanic depths of your toilet bowl. Recoil in horror at the gaping maw of your VCR if you are naive enough to still have one. These dangers are real, dear reader, but luckily there is someone out there to save us. Someone to helps us get our children safely to adulthood despite the peril they face every day. That someone is One Step Ahead or as my husband and I call it The Baby Fear Catalogue.

For those of you who don't know, One Step Ahead is a catalogue of mainly infant and toddler merchandise specifically geared toward developmental milestones and childproofing. It's pages overflow with gadgets to help parents deal with raising a child in the modern world and all that entails. Some of the things are actually useful - the latest sippy cups, potties and baby gates - none of which I am opposed to. I actually bought those zip-up blanket things for the kids to wear at night and slept better because of it. However, the majority of the catalogue is not dedicated to such useful, and sane, items. The rest of the merchandise primarily preys on the fears and insecurities of the modern parent focusing on two questions, "Am I doing everything to help my child develop normally?" and "Is my child going to die a tragic, accidental death because of something I did or didn't do?".

The developmental stuff starts early. "The Perfect Travel Toy!" - for infants, because staring at the back of the driver's seat or his hand isn't stimulating enough. Trade school for you! Your child is learning to walk and you're holding his hands above his head for support? You'll dislocate his shoulders! Here's a harness that looks like it came straight from Ringling Brothers to solve that problem. Potty training? Forget it. If you don't have the"Potty Watch" that tells your child it's time to go every thirty minutes you might as well invest in a lifetime supply of Depends. Your kid's a thumb sucker? Here's a plastic cast to cover his whole hand until you get him to break the habit. It goes on and on, but a lot of this stuff is trying to take the place of good old-fashioned common sense and parental involvement. Kids can handle a few minutes without stimuli, like riding to the grocery store. Don't pull too hard on your kid's hands when helping her to walk. You have to watch your little pooper like a hawk during potty training because you are her potty watch. And you might just have to tell your child "NO" about the thumb sucking at least in public.

If you think the developmental stuff is bad, wait until you get to the safety portion. Now, I admit, some of it is very handy. I myself had to buy corner guards for the coffee table after my middle one split her lip open on it. The baby gates are also very useful for keeping kids off the stairs. What I despise are the items like the toilet bowl lock. Seriously, if your kid can not keep his head out of the toilet you have bigger things to worry about. As for the VCR cover, how about telling your kids, "HEY! Don't put your hands in there!" Another gem is the set of "Snazzy Baby knee pads" to protect baby's knees as she's learning to crawl. I don't know about you, but I learned to crawl without the benefit of padding and I still have skin on my knees. Guess what? If it hurts to crawl on it, maybe your kid shouldn't be on it, you know, like broken glass. The creme de la creme, the piece de resistance, is pictured above. It is the "Bumper Bonnet". Yes people, it's a helmet. They've gone beyond trying to alter the environment and just decided to wrap the kids' head in foam. What's next? A bubble?

I'm not trying to criticize these people for trying to keep our kids safe or help parents with tricky stages. What I take issue with is the needless, expensive crap they are trying to sell when really, just being attentive and creative could solve the problem. In addition, what are we teaching kids about the world around them if we alter every aspect of their surroundings to fit their needs? In fact, what are we teaching them at all? Johnny will learn to stay away from the radiator when he touches it the first time. Harsh, but true. Millions of people survived before all this crap was invented. As my father so sagely put it, "With all the stuff out there now, you must think it's a miracle you lived."

* I must give a shout out to my girl, Jean Roy, who forwarded this topic to me after receiving the catalogue in the mail. She doesn't have kids yet, but she's already hip to the jive.

Evil, thy name is Chuck E. Cheese

This weekend, I had an experience that I have long been hoping to avoid - our first birthday party at Chuck E. Cheese. I knew, before we went it would be a little crazy, having seen commercials starring the namesake mouse wearing a skateboard helmet - that's an advertising tool, by the way, put a skateboard helmet on anyone, cartoon or real, and he's COOL! The kids will love him! - but it wasn't until we got there that I discovered that this place is actually the seventh ring of hell.

It should have tipped me off when I called to RSVP to the party and the birthday girl's mother sounded apologetic about the venue. She explained that her hands were tied having given her older daughter a party at Chuck E.'s the previous year. It's bad news when the host is loathe to repeat the experience. I put my reservations aside and decided it couldn't be that bad, being a national chain and all. They sponsor Sesame Street for crying out loud.

When the day of the party turned out to be a freezing cold January Saturday with my kids literally bouncing off the walls - seriously, I can show you the marks - I decided that not only would one of us would take my daughter to the party, as is our usual MO, the whole family would attend so both kids could burn off some energy. I would stick with the party wearing the baby in his carrier and my husband would take my middle one around on his own. We headed out with if not high, then medium expectations for a fun afternoon.

The wall of noise that greeted us upon our arrival was the first step in our decent into hell. It was the din of a hundred over-sugared children playing equally over-stimulating video games turned up to ear-splitting volume. We were directed to the party table in front of the stage where we met the birthday parents and were given our tokens. Yes, there is a stage. On said stage is the saddest set of 1980's animatronic figures you have ever seen. Half the characters are missing an eye or an appendage and their joints creak with unoiled neglect. Unbeknownst to me, Chuck E. has a posse comprised of weird animal friends and a creepy Italian chef - I guess he makes the pizza? A strange bird-lady is apparently the chanteuse of the group as she clacked her beak off-beatedly to Aha's "Take on Me". Yes, more noise, bad covers of 80's music.

Now let's talk about the crowd. I am going to admit before I even begin that I will sound very judgmental here, but so be it. The crowd at the place was a crystal clear photo of what the rest of the world thinks is wrong with Americans. These people were loud, crass and badly dressed. Children ran, unattended, in different directions as parents either sat lazily in booths completely ignoring horrific behavior like walking up the Skee Ball ramp to throw the balls in or screamed at their children ineffectively, "Don't make me come over there!" And the food, please, I can barely stomach it even in memory. It added to the picture to watch these loud, misbehaving children and their parents shove greasy pizza and buffalo wings into their faces washing it down with gallons of soda.

My children were overwhelmed. My oldest, not good in a crowd on the best of days, did not know what to do with herself. She almost passed out with fear as the "real" Chuck E. came around to greet the party guests with his hammy gestures and dead, glassy eyes. The mega-decibel birthday announcements caused my middle one to cover her ears and cower in fright. She did, however, join in the spirit of the day in terms of cuisine, she ate about six slices of pizza. The baby, bless his heart, gave up his fight to make any sense of the choas around him and fell dead asleep against my chest. My husband said, "This is so bad I feel like I'm in a movie." We stayed long enough for cake and to sing Happy Birthday - a sum total of an hour and fifteen minutes - before I called out our signature word in these situations - "ABORT!"

Ten minutes later we were back in the van staring out the windsheild like WWII troops after D-day. My husband and I kept staring at each other, mouths agape, trying to find the words, but none came. We were just thankful we had escaped with all of our limbs, and sanity, intact and that this was our last experience with Chuck and his gang. After a few minutes of riding in silence my oldest chirps from the back, "Can I have my birthday at that place next year?" I think the incredulous silence was answer enough.

"It looks like you made that in Home Ec."

This, dear readers, was the statement made by my husband after I returned from, yet another, failed shopping trip in an attempt to find a top to wear to my future sister in-law's bachelorette party this Saturday night. I know, I am a bit long in the tooth to be attending bachelorette parties, but as my future SIL paid me the huge compliment of asking me to be in her bridal party, off to the city I go - any excuse to drink. I can guarantee wherever we wind up I will be the only person in the room lactating.

So, back to my miserable attempts to clothe myself. It is a special form or torture having to dress yourself for anything other than an afternoon at the park once you have gotten out of the "well, she just had a baby" excuse zone. You want to look your best, conceal any issues that might still be lingering, and get your feet wet once again in the pool of fashion after a year-long hiatus. No matter what they tell you, maternity clothes are not exactly couture. Sure, they try, but any pants with an elastic panel are not runway material. My issue, currently, are my huge boobs. While, pre-pregnacy, I am a respectable B+ cup, I am now a D and even though my tops fit the rest of me, the girls are an issue. My usual uniform of long-sleeved T-shirts work well during the week, but not for a night out. Hence, my need for a new top.

Off to the mall I went excited to see the new crop of winter fashions and find something modern and slightly sexy to celebrate the fact that I am no longer pregnant and on the way back to being myself. The stores were filled with rack after rack of brightly colored and patterned tops, sleeveless, bejeweled - adorable! I greedily grabbed armloads and headed to the nearest dressing room. Then came the shock. All of these adorable tops were either empire waisted or baby-doll style! This might not dismay some of you, but to anyone who has spent nine months looking pregnant, even the hint that you could look that way again when you are not is an utter horror show. I can see how twenty year-old women would enjoy this look, comfy as it is, but not me. This style was convenient early on in my pregnancy when I wasn't big enough to wear my maternity tops, but now it was repulsive. Add to that, the fact that with my big boobs, the tops were billowing out from my widest point - not flattering. I did my best and bought a few things so at least I would have something to wear.

I got home and after putting the kids to bed, did a little fashion show for my hubby. Can't you just imagine the look of disappointment on my face as I emerge from the bedroom to ask, "How do I look?" and he actually replies, "Eww." I protest, "What? This is very stylish." My husband didn't care. His point, as illustrated by the title of this post, was that while convenient for hiding some muffin top, the stylish tops of today are not sexy and look like bedsheets gone awry. While my husband's ideal outfit for me would include Saran Wrap, he does have a point. These tops don't do very much to accentuate the feminine form, they kind of hide it. He further postulated that the mainly gay fashion designers cater to women who look like boys anyway so what the hell do they know? Huh. Another valid point.

In the end, I am still looking for that perfect little top. I returned to the mall and after more shopping have come to realize that I either have to buy a lame sweater set from Ann Taylor if I want to wear something fitted, or probably buy one of these ridiculous tops. I am so irritated with the current fashions, but fashion, by nature, changes and I'm sure by this summer I'll be moaning about how tight everything is in the stores. Well, one good thing about these tops, at least I can eat a lot of pizza at three in the morning and still feel comfortable.

Slow down, you move too fast.

Last night, I was watching one of my favorite shows, Supernanny (another show my husband won't watch). For those of you unfamiliar with the fabulous Jo, she is a British nanny who, on a weekly basis, visits a family having trouble with specific childrearing issues such as, discipline, potty training or bedtime. During this particular episode, Jo was visiting a family with five children, each of whom was in four after school activities. The parents, well, the mother mainly, were exhausted and the kids were horrible, sibling slapping, back-talking nightmares and they turned to Jo for help. The answer amazingly, was your kids are doing too damn much. I know! Can you believe this idiot Brit thought these parents should actually spend some time with their children instead of only seeing their faces in the rearview mirror of a moving vehicle on the way from one activity to the next?

As you can tell, this issue makes my blood boil. When did it become derigeur to have your children enrolled in a million activities once they emerge from the womb? My oldest was barely six months old and other moms were asking me what classes she was taking. Gymboree? Little Gym? Music Together? While all of these are wonderful programs, I felt that my time was best spent hanging out getting to know my new daughter, at least until she could sit up.

A few months later I caved in, signed up for a class at a local gym and the stress began. First, was the issue of time. Once I signed up for the ten o'clock class and gave them my money, my daughter changed her nap schedule and wanted to sleep then. Damn kids and their need for rest. So twice a week I had to try and gently rouse her from her sleep, get her in the car and in the mood for an hour of screeching by an over-caffeinated, frustrated gymnast. You can guess how well that went. Rather than enjoying this time with my kid I was beating myself up for how tired she was.

My second source of stress was of the comparison variety. Why wasn't she smiling as much as the dopey kid in the hat? Why didn't she want to crawl across the balance beam like Madison - the bald, toothless, Nadia Comaneci-wannabe? Was my kid retarded? This is what these classes do. They stick your kid in with a bunch of other droolers and get you to stick around by talking about "development" and how only you can help your child be the best they can be. How you are solely responsible for whether or not she gets a fat envelope or a skinny envelope from Harvard eighteen years from now.

The stress only gets worse as your kids get older. It seems every kid I know is in at least two after-school activities and they're only five. I feel like a freak because my kid does one that meets once a month. I just don't have it in me to drag all three kids all over town to make to ballet on time, giving them their dinner in the car. Everyone told me when I had my third that he'd have to be flexible and learn to sleep anywhere. Well, actually, no. I make sure he gets most of his naps in his crib like his sisters did. And if that means someone doesn't take a three o'clock karate class, the world won't end.

Before I sound like I'm denying my kids experiences they desire, let me assert my kids don't seem all that enthused about all this crap anyway. When my oldest took soccer last fall, at my insistence, she stood in the middle of the field and cried. Frankly, the girls enjoy being home and while that might make them socially stunted, under-achievers in the eyes of some, it makes them kids to me. My girls love playing with each other. Yesterday they played some kind of game I was not privy to that involved both of them wearing (clean) underpants on their heads. They would never have time to participate in this kind of imaginary play if every afternoon was spent running all over town. Never mind that they get a chance to rest and eat a decent meal after school. Never mind homework. With one worksheet a night I'm a stress case.

My point is, let's let kids be kids. Having nothing to do helped me to become the person I am, and I think I turned out OK. How can we expect our kids to be calm, creative thinkers when they are being over-stimulated and are under-rested? The mileage on your minivan does not translate to SAT points no matter what people try to tell (sell) you. Time with you and each other is what kids need and want. That, and they, will be gone before you know it.

Ode to my Quest Minivan

Oh minivan, how do I begin to thank you for the ways you have changed my life? They are too numerous and wonderful to count. As you remember, before you, I was driving your cooler older sister, our red Jetta. Sure, she holds the allure of memories from our child-free days with all of the trips down the shore and weekends away. We tried to hold onto the dream after one kid, but after the second one came, all Jetta gave me was a pain in the neck, literally, as I had to ratchet the driver's seat completely forward leaving her VW sign imprinted on my chest in order to squeeze two car seats into her minuscule backseat.

When we first met, I was blown away by your cavernous interior and plethora of seating arrangements. Having a playdate? No problem, here's an extra seat for our guest. The dog is coming on our trip? Fold down that seat and he can lay down in comfort. Someone screaming for a snack in my diaper bag that Daddy stupidly put in the trunk? Well, your trunk is accessible over your lovely third row of seats. I need only climb back there while Daddy keeps driving and I do my unbuckled, crouchy, hope-I-don't-get-thrown- through-the-windsheild walk to my starving offsrping to deliver the Goldfish.

When we reached the age of potty training, how you dazzled me. I now had the space to bring the potty with us and with your cleverly tinted rear windows no one need know I'm actually driving a Port-A-John. Even I relied on such convenience. Remember during my last pregnancy, minivan, how you rescued me when my lemon-sized bladder could not make it to the rest stop? I do. And how did I ever survive without an automatic side door that slides open with the touch of my remote as I scream at my children, "Get in! Get in!" since I can no longer hold their hands, lugging the baby in his carrier, as we dodge the onslaught of cars in the supermarket parking lot?

Minivan, despite my proclamations of love, I know I have not treated you well. Your interior, littered with stale, half-eaten bagels and discarded Dunkin' Donuts cups, has never seen the likes of a vacuum. Your rear windows are smeared with fingerprints and your upholstery dappled with crayon melted in the August heat. The once shiny expanse of midnight blue that was your exterior is now marred with the evidence of my bad driving as I scatter garbage cans turning into the driveway and the scratches the kids have left as they bump their bikes into you. I apologize from the bottom of my heart for that permanently dented right rear hubcap. I still have days when your girth is a challenge for my driving skills - not that I'm calling you fat!

Minivan, you rock my world. I will make this up to you. I will continue to laugh at those mothers who still try to hold onto their "cool card" by driving enormous SUVs as they have to manually open doors and toss their progeny to dizzying heights in order to enter their vehicles. They do not know what they are missing. Cool or not, minivan, I could not live without you. I will make it my job to spread the gospel started by your ancestors in the 70's, "Respect the Van."

I LOVE TV - yeah, I said it.

Let me just put it out there - I love TV. I know, TV is the root of all evil from making us all sedentary and overweight to making us buy things we don't need. I don't care. One of the best times of my day is eight o'clock, the kids are in bed and I cozy up on the couch for my daily dose of the idiot box.

My favorite shows are reality TV of what I consider the "highbrow" variety - Survivor, The Amazing Race, The Biggest Loser (yes, I used to watch The Bachelor and the hideous Mr. Personality, but those were dark days). The drama of these shows revolves around a game rather than putting people in a house together and waiting for them to start killing one another. Sure, there is personal drama, but that is only a by-product of strategy and alliances. My husband and I have had some pretty serious debates about these shows. While he does watch Survivor with me he refuses to watch the other two calling them "stupid". I disagree. I find Amazing Race educational, showing the world exotic locals like Croatia - a country I only associated with certain doctors on ER, but now know is quite lovely and modern. As for the Biggest Loser, I find it inspirational. While I don't have a hundred pounds to lose, this show does make me think about how I treat my body. On the other hand, it does make me feel better about eating a few cookies at night - at least I'm not eating two bags like some people. Watch, I'll be the only person in America to gain weight watching this show.

Regardless of what shows I watch, I find TV to be a relaxing diversion. It hasn't killed my sex life, made me obese or stopped my husband and I from talking. We look forward so much to Thursday night TV that I was devastated when he joined a hockey league on that night. Thank God for TiVo. What has thrown a wrench in my TV enjoyment - my kids. There is so much media attention (ironically) given to the detrimental effects of TV on children that I half expect their brains to be leaking out of their ears after half an hour of Dora. So not only can I not watch any of the good daytime TV I fantasized about before I actually became a stay-at-home mom ("I'll get to watch the whole Today show everyday!"), but I ration TV time out like sugar during WWII for fear of turning my kids into blithering idiots who can't read.

What really pisses me off is when I do get to watch a show like Today and they have some expert telling mothers that a child under three needs NO screen time at all (this includes TV' s evil twin, the computer). Really, Dr. Fantasy? Who's home with your kids right now? The nanny? Bet it's pretty easy to tell someone else not to let your kids watch any TV when you're not the one who has to keep them engaged, and from killing one another while you try to clean the house, fold laundry or make a meal that doesn't come entirely out of the microwave. Don't even get me started on taking a shower. Yes, TV is my babysitter. Her rates are reasonable and she can pop over for half an hour on short notice. Occasionally, she might even teach my kids something like the time an episode of Sesame Street started a discussion about adoption or Franklin got us to do our first fire drill. As we speak, my five year-old is watching Giada on Food Network make gnocchi (her choice of programming, not mine).

Now I'm not saying the TV should be on at all hours in any house, but I don't think an enjoyable hour here and there is going to kill anyone and I am glad that having my kids has made me watch less of it. And while I do love it, I am irate over parents who let their kids watch unsupervised or watch inappropriate programming (my kids have no idea who Spongebob and the Rugrats are yet and I intend to keep it that way), but small doses of the right TV are great. Consider it like chocolate, keep it high quality and in small servings. Cut it out entirely, not on your life.

I want to get married again.

Well, actually, I want to have another wedding. After accompanying my future sister in-law to her dress fitting on Saturday, I was overwhelmed by the desire to have another wedding. My wedding (pictured left) was the happiest day of my life. Yeah, yeah, I'm the devil because I'm not saying that about the days I gave birth to my three kids, but I consider the days the kids were born as the most life-altering in a "Oh, YAY! But, Jesus, now what?" kind of way. Your wedding is all about pure, unadulterated, selfish, we-are-the-best-couple-on-the-planet joy. Yes, planning a wedding is stressful, there is a whole television genre now devoted to documenting how difficult it is, but there are so many wonderful things about weddings that I think it entirely unfair that you only get one.

You get to have a huge party. My wedding, while not huge (120 people), was big enough to have everyone I love together in the same room. Sure, there were a few duds thrown in, business associates of my father's, creepy third cousins, but for the most part, every time I turned around I was genuinely delighted by who I saw. The room was full of people I wanted to talk to and every time I hit the dance floor I was surrounded by my friends. I know some people prefer small weddings, but there was something so great about seeing my best friend and my mother's best friend dancing to "I Will Survive".

The other fabulous part about this party is, you get to pick everything. It's like a day-of-our-favorite-things. You get to pick what foods you want served, what drinks will be poured and what music will be played. I love Donna Summer's "Last Dance", but hate when it is actually played as the last dance. Just as you are really getting your groove on they throw on the lights and hand you your coat? Not cool. So it was played in the middle of my wedding and I loved every minute of it. We wanted pigs in blankets and antipasto, so we served them at the cocktail hour. I think even on a budget, even at a backyard wedding, you should get to have what you want as a couple because it's all for you. How great is that?

Now to reassure you that I am not entirely shallow, I want to have another wedding to celebrate, again, how awesome I think my husband and I are as a couple. A wedding is a celebration of the fact that two people have chosen each other out of all the other people in the world to go through the life with. You get to say to the people you love, this is the person who makes me happy and makes me stronger. This is the person I want to face the challenges of life with. A wedding is the day you say to your partner, "You and me against the world. Okay?"

I now understand why people have vow renewals. If you've made it fifty years why shouldn't you have another huge party that has all these great aspects? But now that I think about it, what I don't want is another wedding. Weddings are about promises concerning the unknown. I think what I'd really like now isn't even a vow renewal, I don't need to chose my husband again, he knows he's mine. What I think I'd like sometime in the future is a "thank you ceremony". Where my husband I get to stand up in front of all those people again and say thank you for keeping your promises, or at least trying really hard to. Thank you for still choosing me after all I've put you through. Thank you for the life we have made together. And while I'm at it, I'd like to be saying all of this while wearing my original wedding dress.

I love my life, REALLY.

After having a few conversations with members of my older readership and reviewing my posts I realize that I may, to those of you who don't know me well, seem to be a Bitter Betty. I generally use this blog as a place to vent my frustrations and explore some random thoughts and I've been finding it really therapeutic. For example, after my ranting post last night I was able to greet my husband calmly rather than rip his face off - quite and accomplishment in my opinion (I may not be a Bitter Betty, but I do have a temper). So in the spirit of being positive and saving my father in-law embarrassment over his insane daughter in-law, as he so nicely got me some readers at work (bet he's regretting that now since terms like "fur vagina" are coming up lately), I have decided to write a bit about some things that I love, some lately, some always.

Of course, I love my husband. Yes, I list him above my kids because he's the reason they exist. I recently read an article in which the author proclaimed she loved her husband more than her children and the readers (of a certain parenting publication) went berserk. I have to say, I understood her. I can't exactly quantify my affections, but my husband is at least tied with my kids in the love contest and, yes, he does win some days. I love that after seventeen years together I still get excited when I see him across a crowded room. I love that he is my favorite person in the world to talk to. I love that when we have coffee and read catalogues on Sunday mornings it still feels like we are alone in our first apartment in Hoboken - when we can ignore the screams and soundtrack of Blues Clues from the living room. To put it plainly, my husband rocks my world.

My kids. I won't bore you with the obvious. I love them with the ferocity of a mother lion as all mothers love their kids. It is random, more interesting things I love about my kids that make my day.

I love how they smell and feel when they wake up in the morning. My oldest is so loving and snuggly and having her wrap her wiry five year old self around me in bed makes me wonder at the fact that she actually came out of my body. Hearing my middle one say, I woked up!" cracks me up - every morning. I love that the very fist thing my baby does in the morning when he wakes up is smile. Like he's trying to tell me, "This is how you face the day, lady!"

I love taking my kids out to dinner because, not to toot my own horn, but they are really well behaved and they get so excited about it. "Look, Annie!", says my oldest, "They have crayons here!" And my husband and I look across the table at each other proud of what we have made and how we are raising them as we listen to the cacophony of a million other ill-behaved brats at The Macaroni Grill.

I could go one and on, but I'm not Oprah with mer damn gratitude journal (tried it, the experiment lasted a week, "I am grateful for toilet paper." got me to stop) I'm me and good or bad, I'm a snarky bitch at times. Despite what you may think after certain posts, dear reader, I do love my life. I love being home with my kids and the opportunities that allows me - from being able to see my oldest read a word for the first time, to seeing the baby laugh at the dog. And as you've read, it makes for some pretty good writing material.

Life is good. See, Pop, I'm not crazy.

The Definition of Insanity...

...is doing the same thing time and time again and expecting the same results. So, apparently, my husband is insane. We have just had Performance #4,011 of the play called, "I Tell You I'm Going to be Home at a Certain Time then Call at Said Time from the City."

On this particular occasion, my husband was going out for a beer with friends from work. Now don't jump to conclusions, my husband is not the boozy, partying type. He may go out for a beer or two, but it's generally pretty tame. He gets in trouble, not for the amount of alcohol he consumes, but the amount of time he tells me he's going to take. I have no problem if he miscalculates and winds up leaving later than expected - OK, that's a blatant lie, I would give him attitude about it - but why in the name of GOD can he not call me when he realizes it is the hour he would need to leave to be home on time and he has not yet left the bar???? My father opines that he's afraid of getting in trouble. Well, after the tongue lashing he received the first 4,010 times he's done this might not he realize it is the lack of phone communication that is the problem? He is apologetic every time, but seriously, is he that slow a learner?

For those of you who have not experienced it, being stuck at home with your kids while your husband tells you by his actions, "Eat it. I'll be home when I'm home." is the most impotent feeling in the world. You get to choke back your bile and put on a happy face for your children while you imagine eviscerating their father because you have to bathe three children and get them into bed all by yourself - a task I usually need a gallon of four o'clock coffee to steel myself for. In the days before kids I'd be annoyed because I was sitting alone watching Law & Order reruns. I would grab my keys, hop in the car and be gone when he got home. That'll teach him. Immature, yes, but very empowering. Now, where the hell am I going with three kids? Nowhere but Crazytown.

Let me apologize, in advance, to my husband for airing dirty laundry, but perhaps this can be the emotional equivalent of running out the door - running into cyberspace. Maybe this is something I can use. Can't you see me yelling into the phone, "I swear to God, if you do that again, I'll write about it!"?

MOO!

I will explain this image in a moment.

My son has finally been given the green light to start solids. While this is an exciting development (he may actually start to sleep through the night now) it does add another thing to my to-do list - pumping breastmilk. While I have already been pumping in order to have bottles when I go out, it was always optional. As if I don't already have enough to do now I need to pump at least four ounces a day in order to make his cereal with it.

For those of you blessedly unfamiliar with pumping breastmilk and all it involves here are the basics. The pump is a small motor with a hose and a cone-like nozzle you place over your breast and turn it on so that your nipple is alternately pulled partially into the contraption and released to simulate sucking. Doesn't sound too bad, does it? Until you see the extent to which your damn nipple is pulled and stretched. Until you try to sit and do it while your two other kids are asking you for another waffle or more syrup as you are freaking out about whether you'll be late for school (pumping is best done in the morning). Until you sit there for thirty minutes and realize you've only gotten two measly ounces. Until you start feeling like your name should be Bessie and words like "homogenized" start to dance in your head.

All of this focus on acquiring specific amounts of breastmilk made me think. While I know I'm giving my son a great start in life and, it is truly convenient in the middle of the night (no prep required) it is a lot of hard work nursing. So much so that I have decided all nursing women deserve monetary compensation for the lack of sleep (since you are the only food source), utter (udder!) responsibility for nourishing a life and, let's face it, sad, droopy little breasts we are left with at the end (let's just say I totally understand those women in National Geographic now). For said compensation I came up with a formula (no pun intended). If a large can of formula costs $28.00 then an equivalent volume of breastmilk would cost sixteen cents an ounce. So here is my math figuring 32 ounces a day for 320 days.

$0.16/oz x 32oz/day x 320 days = $1638.40/year x 3 kids = $4915.20

I did a little online shopping. With this figure, I think I have earned the item pictured above and, dammit, I intend to collect. Or force my husband to take a turn with the pump. Either would be fine.

I hope she doesn't tell this story at school...

I have a school board meeting tonight so today's post is going to be short and...mildly disturbing/hilarious.
I finally just took a shower (at 4:00!) and was busy getting dressed in my bedroom when my three year-old walks in munching away on a graham cracker. Let me preface this story with the clear assertion that we are not "naked parents" but live in a very small house and seriously, when you are home alone you can not shut the door on two small kids for even a second without someone losing an eye. So in my kid comes as I put on my underwear. She points to my nether regions and says, "Oh look. Fur." As I try not to die laughing, she adds, "A fur vagina?" and starts to giggle.
You can not make this stuff up.

Food Network - Overexposure 101

Look around you. It seems everywhere you look you see a goofy grin and pair of chipmunk cheeks usually dancing above some kind of catchy food phrase ("Yummo!"). Do you know who these features belong to? If you don't you have been living in a Rachel-Ray-free zone. You can't swing a cat these days without hitting something she's endorsing.

Rachel Ray is the latest victim of Food Network's favorite pastime - find a new food "star", shove him or her down America's throats until he or she is vomited back up swimming in a sea of self-loathing as they are proclaimed "over". They start each newbie out slowly with a cooking show. Then, once there is a whisper of popularity, they introduce the cooking show with a live audience who can shout out the Food-Network-approved catch phrase like baptists at a tent revival. There is usually a band or dj with whom the star can have witty banter. Then there are the guest stars who come to fumble around the kitchen and plug whatever new project they're working on. Watch Jessica Alba almost lose a finger while shilling for The Fantastic Four! Then, finally, add the cookware, kitchen products and endorsement deals.

This all rolls along nicely for everyone until America gets fed up with seeing the same face again and again and their catch phrase loses it's zing. The live show is canceled, reruns of the original show dwindle and all that's left is a hollow shell of marketing and hype where a cook used to be. Need further evidence of the stage-mother star-pushing over-exposure of which I speak? Ever heard of someone called Emeril Lagasse? He was the foodie darling of the late 90's. Then he got caught up in the Food Network machine and his contract as just been canceled. Sadly, he may have "Bam!-ed" his last.

Paula Deen is another poor soul facing a similar fate. Paula won America over with her southern charm and teddy bear cuddliness. She now screeches,"Hi y'all!" enough times during her live audience show to induce hearing loss and, I am not shitting you, Sugar Ray Leonard, was her last guest. I think the end is near.

If things don't change, in the future I see Paula, Emeril and Rachel Ray sitting in some hole-in-the-wall bar bloated (as seems to happen with all these stars, they put on, like thirty pounds), defeated and cursing the Food Network execs exclaiming, "I could been a contenda!" I don't need star quality when I'm sitting on my couch Sunday morning watching someone prepare meals I have no energy to attempt. Just leave these poor people alone and let them cook.

Are you serious?

This is the picture of the crap that runs my life. This is a fork that came with the girls' Beauty and the Beast Polly Pocket set. How, let me ask you dear reader, am I supposed to keep track of not one but FOUR of these things so that when my two daughters have a Polly Pocket dinner party no one is short a utensil? Hell hath no fury like a Polly who has to eat with her hands or the sister whose Polly it is.

I have devised a pretty fail-safe system of Polly storage - a large, plastic storage bin with a lid and within said bin a smaller plastic storage bin for all these tiny parts. Don't even get me started on the shoes. Polly is the Imelda Marcos of the doll world besting even the likes of Barbie. Even with this system in place I still need to obsessively check my floors for these tiny treasures before I vacuum to prevent the torrent of tears that follows a piece's mysterious disappearance.

I'm not sure if my daughters are particularly OCD about this stuff or if it's an inherently female trait to be organized at a young age. I have heard tales of a tackle box my husband used as a child to store his Lite Bright pieces by color (back off ladies, he's my nerd). So if it's not gender based, perhaps genetic? In the land of toys I'm sure there is a boy equivalent to the Lilliputian Polly Pocket accessories , but I am looking forward to the day Polly leaves our lives for good and I have only my youngest's (a boy) toys to deal with. Then again, ask me in five years when I'm scrabbling under my couch looking for microscopic car tires.

The evils of consumerism (or my crowded playroom)

I am in the middle of a full-blown panic attack. There is just TOO MUCH CRAP IN MY HOUSE! I am currently trying to reorganize the kids' toys after the holidays and I have no place to put anything. This is just ridiculous. My kids have so much stuff and they haven't played with half of it in I don't know how long. Days like this I want to leave all of our junk behind, move to a farm somewhere and have my kids whittle their own toys.

Since when did all this crap become a requirement for a happy childhood? Is the mental well being of a child proportional to how much plastic junk they can contribute to a landfill? Didn't kids in the 50's have, like, a jump rope and a rag doll? And God forbid I put limits on what people give them, or having them donate some of their gifts to charity a la Joan Crawford in Mommy Dearest. I'm beginning to understand her more and more. Remember how Type A and organized she was? I kind of admire her now. Except for the beatings. And my freak out would have me screaming, "NO MORE POLLY POOOCKETS!" rather than wire hangers. Of course, I would also be in a fabulous dressing gown and face full of cold cream.

My new strategy is to sneak stuff out into the garage, cover it with a sheet and if they haven't asked about it in two months throw it away. There's the other tragedy. Because it is nearly impossible to get a charity (women's shelter, day care center) to accept gently used toys I have to dump it. Apparently charities want new stuff too!

And I know there will be some smug idiots out there who either don't have kids or have their first and after reading this will say, "That'll never be me", as they wipe the Chai latte foam off their sneering lips. Sure, we all say that, but the God's honest truth is, I bought maybe 25% of this stuff. The truth of the matter is, people like to give kids toys and you look like a schmuck if you tell their - in my case awesome and amazing - grandparents that they can donate money they would have spent on Junior to save the rain forest. Trust me, I would LOVE to have all the money that has been spent on my kids go to someone more deserving, but my hands are tied. How do you deny your kid the joy of opening presents and the people they love the joy of giving them?

Speaking of, the kids' birthdays are all in the summer so I know six months from now I'll be dealing with another plastic deluge. I am drowning in a sea of consumerism and I don't see a life boat. I have to take a stand somehow. Perhaps a "books only" birthday is a good idea. That way at least they're getting something enriching out of the whole experience rather than another doll or figure whose insipid mug will taunt me from the overcrowded playroom shelves.
Fisher Price you are the devil incarnate.

I'VE STILL GOT IT! Well, I actually never had it.

It's taken me a week, but I am finally over the embarrassment associated with this image. This is a picture taken of me on my thirty-fourth birthday. As you can see, I am dancing with abandon on stage at a bar. I know! Fortunately you can not hear the out of tune, drunken singing that accompanied this dancing as I was belting out the chorus to "Jessie's Girl" to the best of my drunken recollection.

As I said, looking at this picture I was initially embarrassed, but then I began to really look at it. In this picture is a woman who is having an incredible time and just doesn't give a crap what anyone else thinks. I was waving my hands around, shaking my money-maker and singing (badly) at the top of my lungs simply because it felt great. And you know what? The response I got was amazing. I was actaully hit on by men in their late twenties! Of course, my husband was there, rolling his eyes at the inept attempts these men (boys, really) made to dance with me (I think one of them was high on Ecstasy) and chuckled as I sent them packing, but it got me thinking. Why didn't I have this kind of self-confidence when I was their age? I'm not even talking about meeting men, I mean in general. I remember a hesitancy about myself at their age and I think its absence is what drew so much attention. There is something to be learned from this experience.

What if we all stopped caring what everyone else thought and did what felt right? Not only would we get more pleasure out of life, but we'd wind up doing more of the right things and taking more chances. I don't want to look back in another ten years and wonder the same thing I am now about my thirty-four-year-old self. Instead, I want to look back and know I did what I wanted to do without holding back. Maybe I'll frame this picture to remind me.

PS - As you can see, my twenty-two year-old sister in-law, Candi, who is pictured with me, has already learned this lesson.

False imprisonment - or The Rest

I feel guilty. Well, not that guilty. My three year old is in her room crying because I mistakenly opened her door during her "nap" and she thought it was time to get up. Sadly, this was not the case and now she is letting me know how badly I suck as a mother.

For those of you who don't know, three is usually the age most kids start to give up their blessed, two-and-a-half-hour long afternoon nap - also known as the non-drug "mother's little helper". This break in the day is sometimes the only thing that stands between me and a padded room at Bellevue. I consider at least a portion of the nap my lunch hour. I know that for a short period of time I do not have to answer any questions, put any clothing on a Polly Pocket (who the hell thought rubber clothing was a good idea for a four inch doll?) or fetch anyone an apple (peeled, cut into wafer-thin slices and dusted with cinnamon - I am the freakin' Starbucks of apple prep around here).

So imagine my terror when one day I was folding laundry and instead of the heavenly sound of silence, I heard my little cherub awake in her room after two hours. I was not going down without a fight though, and I put in to action the plan I hatched when my five year-old started this same crap. It's called "The Rest". My kids go into their rooms for forty-five minutes of quiet time every day so they can have more energy for the afternoon - or so I tell them. It's really so Mommy can watch ten minutes (!) of Project Runway and stuff a Lean Cuisine down her throat.

Perhaps some of you think this is cruel, shutting your children in a semi-darkened room for almost an hour just to be rid of them. I actually looked up the definition of false imprisonment and it made me a little uncomfortable. "Intentionally restraining another person without the legal right to do so. Physical force need not be used; threats or a show of apparent authority are sufficient." Does screaming, "Get back in that room until I come get you or there will be no treats tonight!" count? I don't know why I ask, because, frankly, I don't care. Being a stay-at-home mom while a real job, lacks all of the perks associated with one, such as the lunch hour (never mind sick days or, you know, pay) So, dammit, if it means a participating in a Class A misdemeanor I'll do the time.

Let's stop "shoulding" all over ourselves, shall we?

(Yeah, yeah, I stole the title from Sex and the City)
Happy New Year! One of my resolutions this year is to take more time to post on this blog. I'm not sure if it'll stick, but here's hopin'.

Speaking of resolutions, I have decided to make mine all about positive things rather than negative ones. I'm tired of hearing people make resolutions that are really insults directed at themselves. Lose weight - translation - I'm fat. Get organized - translation - I'm a mess. Drink less - translation - do not wind up with lampshade on head at company Christmas party. My resolution is to be kinder to myself. Rather self-indulgent, I know, but I feel that women, as a group, spend entirely too much time focusing on what they "should" do instead of what they want to do. In fact, I would like to remove the word "should" entirely from the English language.

The Oxford English dictionary defines should as being "used to express duty or obligation." Bleh. Who the hell wants to use a word like that with such alarming frequency? I think I'm rather addicted to it actually. Should has replaced any other verb in so many circumstances in my life sucking the joy out of times and things that should make me happy. "I should read to the girls for at least fifteen minutes every day." This makes what would normally be an enjoyable task - sitting and spending time with my children - a burden, an item to be crossed off a list. Instead of focusing on the happiness this would bring me the word "should" makes me focus on the obligation I feel to my girls. "I should exercise" means undertaking the Herculean task of chaining myself to the treadmill while "I think I'll workout" makes me envision having a good little jog to some of Madonna's greatest hits.

My should addiction also forces me to do things that really don't contribute much to my life. Like there is this cosmic judge who, when I die, will determine my worth by the amount of time I spent cleaning my bathroom or organizing my linen closet. For example, how many times have I been playing with my kids or trying to post on this blog and have said to myself, "I should really vacuum this floor because it's covered in dog hair and pulverized Goldfish." Really? Why should I? Am I bad person because my floor doesn't look like it just starred in a Swiffer commercial? No, but I'll flagellate myself about it anyway.

So, to hell with you Should! Don't let the door hit you on the way out! Use your shackles of guilt on another patsy! I'll do what I think I need to do or want to do and be done with it. Now I really should go fold some laundry...