Yes, Virginia...

...there is a Santa Claus.

I know, I know, we've all heard this line a thousand times and know the story of a little girl a long, long time ago who wrote a letter to a newspaper asking if the big man did, indeed, exist. But how many of us have read that letter? Macy's recently made a commercial using excerpts from this letter to promote a charity drive and, after I finished weeping on the couch*, I turned to the internet to read, in full, the answer that had inspired such emotion.

While I only occasionally dabble in the corny here at MM, I have included the whole letter here in today's post so that we can all take a moment and appreciate the beauty, not only of the writing (it really is poetry), but of the message. Why, as adults, do we only believe what we can see? A dose of childlike faith, faith that the world is inherently a good place and we all just want safety and happiness for our families, as mentioned in this letter would do us all a lot of good when we interact with the people around us.

And if that makes me corny, screw you.

"VIRGINIA, your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age. They do not believe except [what] they see. They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by their little minds. All minds, Virginia, whether they be men's or children's, are little. In this great universe of ours man is a mere insect, an ant, in his intellect, as compared with the boundless world about him, as measured by the intelligence capable of grasping the whole of truth and knowledge.

Yes, VIRGINIA, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas, how dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus. It would be as dreary as if there were no VIRGINIAS. There would be no childlike faith then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The eternal light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished.

Not believe in Santa Claus! You might as well not believe in fairies! You might get your papa to hire men to watch in all the chimneys on Christmas Eve to catch Santa Claus, but even if they did not see Santa Claus coming down, what would that prove? Nobody sees Santa Claus, but that is no sign that there is no Santa Claus. The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see. Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn? Of course not, but that's no proof that they are not there. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in the world.

You may tear apart the baby's rattle and see what makes the noise inside, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived, could tear apart. Only faith, fancy, poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, VIRGINIA, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding.

No Santa Claus! Thank God! He lives, and he lives forever. A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay, ten times ten thousand years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood."

*I have highlighted, in blue, the line that actually made my snort as I cried. Hubby's nickname for me? The Open Wound. He, with all of his non-crying, has a heart made of stone.

Here's your baby. Where's my drink?

This weekend, I visited some friends who recently had a baby. I arrived with gifts and the usual eighty-five pounds of cold cuts I bring when dropping in on the newly multiplied (new parents need food that does not require heating and can be eaten with one hand) dressed in one of my "I'm not with my kids" outfits, which included The Shoes, ready for a fun afternoon of reminiscing about my days as a teacher with this former colleague of mine.

After lunch, the baby woke up and my travel companion, another former colleague of mine who, as of yet, does not have children, asked if he could hold the baby. After a decent interval, he said he didn't want to hog all the baby-holding time and asked me would I like a turn. "Of course!", was my answer. What did I really want to say? "No thanks, I've had a turn for the past six years." But I took the baby, smelled that wonderful, new baby smell and the little guy rewarded me by starting to whimper, presumably to be fed. "I think he's hungry", I told his mother and handed him off straight away lest he spit up on my adorable, green, corduroy blazer or, God forbid, my shoes. My friend, ever-observant and witty said, "Wow. It's like he was spring-loaded." Well.

OK, I'll say it. I do not like to hold babies that are not my own.* Yes, I am the devil. This was not always the case. Before I had kids, I jockeyed for baby-rocking rights with the best of them, swooping in before an elderly aunt could get her claws on a newborn relative so I could rock him to sleep. It was fun imagining myself as a mother and seeing the look in Hubby's eyes as he pictured me, I'm sure, with our own offspring, made my ovaries ache.

But now, dear readers, the bloom is off the rose. I've held my own babies for what must amount to years' worth of time. Was and is it wonderful? Yes, and at times, no. I liken my new-found distaste for cradling the recently born to asking a grave digger if he'd like to come help you turn over your garden on Sunday. It's what I do for a living, I do not enjoy doing it during my off hours. Again, evil? Sure, but I like to use my down time to recharge my holding-feeding-butt-wiping batteries for my own children's benefit so let me give these guns a rest.

These awkward hot-potato-baby moments also happen most often on weekends and holidays when Hubby is on duty with my own progeny and I am either away from them or he is around to do the messy stuff. I am also usually dressed up and/or having a glass of wine as well and, as I have mentioned in previous posts, nothing is more alluring to a baby than long, carefully blown-out hair or dry clean only clothing. I just want to enjoy my moment of child-free-not-wearing-yoga-pants-and-a-sweatshirt bliss. In fact, holidays are the perfect time for the beleaguered mother to get a break with all the grandparents, aunts and uncles around who are just dying to get a hold of your little bundle of joy - and any mother who denies loving this perk is a big, fat, fucking liar.

My apologies to anyone whose baby I have held recently. I love you and your child, really, I do. It's just that when I am out of "Mommy mode" I'd kind of like to stay that way for a while. If you visit me on a workday when I am battle-ready and wearing my machine washable armor having tied my hair back then I'll while the day away holding your kid so you can get some peace. Just remember that feeling if we meet on a holiday or festive occassion becuase odds are, Hubby is chasing Little Man around while simultaneously trying to get #2 to pee and #1 asks him to braid her hair, and know I am trying to enjoy some peace of my own.

*Jean - I was obviously dressed in Mommy clothes (as evidenced by the ever-present ponytail) when I saw you and wild horses could not have stopped me from getting my mitts on that little guy.

Happy Thanksgiving

Happy Thanksgiving! I'm taking five minutes before the inevitable, crazy run-around of packing my family, including a semi-incontinent dog, for a day at someone else's house to tell all of you how grateful I am for this blog. Although I had already started it at this time last year, I was still to engulfed in the up-all-night-nursing-haven't-quite-figured-out-how-to-manage-three-kids fog to really write with any regularity, and thus, it really hadn't made an impact on my life yet. This year, one of the things I am most grateful for is having this place to sound off and to test the waters writing-wise knowing I have a supportive group of followers who don't think I'm crazy, or crazy enough to call Child Protective Services...yet.

So Happy Turkey Day to all (a phrase I semi-hate, but find myself using anyway). One of the traditions Mean Mommy and her brood will be partaking in is the annual writing in the "Thanksgiving Book". This is a plain, hardcover sketch book I bought the year my first was born and each Thanksgiving we all get a page to write what we are grateful for that year - specifically that year. We know each year we are thankful for family and our health, etc., but keeping it specific to the year that is coming to close has made this book a chronical of our lives.

The first year we had just had #1, so we both obviously went on and on about her, but also about the bout of unemplyment we were going through and how thankful we were to have each other and how strong we felt as a team. As soon as they could hold a crayon my kids joined in and it's so sweet now to read their contributions. #1's entry last year, despite her brother's arrival, stated she was most thankful for her sister because she always has someone to play with. This year, #2 returned the favor by listing her sister as her biggest blessing. This is the part of the day I most look forward to and it made my day when my oldest asked me, "When do we get to write in the book?", with excitement in her voice.

I remember the days when Thanksgiving was a day to endure my annoying uncles and trying not to gag while eating my Irish aunt's terrible cooking, or, years later, a day to drink mass amounts of wine with my husband and assorted siblings watching the "real" grown-ups do all the work. And while the workload has increased with time, so has my love for this day.

I hope you all have a wonderful day and get to partake in traditions that bring you and your family joy.

Re: Complaints filed

Dear Sir,
We are writing in response to several complaints received by the government of this household by a "Hubby" during the morning hours of Wednesday, November 26th, 2008.

The first complaint was filed with the Department of Sanitation - "You've lost all my good socks." This statement is baldly untrue. The Department makes collections several times a week at specific drop points and while we carefully clean and return all items left in the proper containers, we can not be held responsible for items dropped near or about said vessels or items that are left in the middle of the floor and wind up under the dresser. Leaving said items scrunched up in little balls in the very manner they were removed from your feet does not help either. The FBI has looked into this claim and no missing socks could be found despite interrogating both the washing machine and dryer during the baby's nap.

The second complaint, fielded by The Department of Health and Human Services, after discussing tonight's pre-Thanksgiving dinner menu composed of leftovers was, I believe, worded as "Now you want to feed me old soup". While we agree that this is not the most desirable of situations, food stores are low prior to the holiday and the Department is trying to ensure some vegetables that are not creamed enter the systems of this family in the next forty-eight hours. DHHS is also supported by the Department of the Treasury in its cost-cutting efforts trying to avoid the thirty-five dollar Mexican takeout bill.

The third complaint was recieved by The Fish and Wildlife Service concerned the medical care of one canine. A veternary appointment had been made in the evening hours to accomodate The Department of Finance's work schedule, but this was apparently unacceptable and "There must be a way you can take him with the kids" was the response to our efforts. What the DOF fails to realize is the sheer physical strength required to drag three children, one in a stroller with a bum wheel, and a skittish dog through the cavernous vet's waiting room then the creativity and mental agility to keep all FOUR beings semi-quiet, happy and occupied while sitting in a room that smells vaguely of cat pee and that weird stuff that shoots out of dog's butts when terrified.

Sir, we regret to inform you that, while your complaints have been heard, we feel other departments within the government must pick up the slack if the situation is to improve. We are stretched thin as it is with very little man-power to make any serious changes and frankly, we don't want to. The President has informed us she "could not give less of a shit" and despite numerous apologies offered, "he can wash his own damn socks from now on".

Sincerely,
Mary Barchetto
Secretary of State

Mean Mommy Published (sort of)

Check out the December issue of Self magazine's Letters to the Editor to find yet another public forum I think needs my opinion. Hopefully this is the toe in the door toward getting an article published.
Oh, and they totally added (as they make you agree to editing) that exclamation point at the end since I would never end in such a cheeseball tone. Exclamation point overuse makes my skin crawl! Really!!!! Meh.

If I Were a Boy

Yes, this is the topic of Beyonce's new song, and yes, I like her music and, yes, you can stop laughing and shut up.

Seriously, my love of R&B aside (which apparently is my favorite genre of music according to the new sort function on iTunes), listening to this song got me thinking. In the song Beyonce lists all of the things she would do within the confines of a relationship were she male - not calling, not sharing - blah, blah, find a new boyfriend then. However, the refrain, "If I were a boy" made me think about all the differences between men and women outside of the cliched romantic ones and the line, "I'd put myself first", particularly highlighted, to me, the innate selfishness men never seem to lose as they mature from boys to men.

Now don't get your boxers in a bunch, male readers. I am not saying all men are selfish bastards who don't think of others or live their lives in service to their families - this is meant as a compliment. What I'm talking about are the day to day differences in the way we live our lives as adults. Men continue to seek pleasure as they did as children while women develop a mindset of self-deprivation-as-virtue. We feel we have to earn our rewards and pleasures instead of it being a right as a living being to enjoy what life has to offer.

So, I came up with four major things I would like to start doing to break this habit - all inspired by Hubby. These are differences between he and I that I think add to his quality of life and seriously detract from mine.

1. I will indulge regularly in things I love to eat and actively seek them out. My husband will no longer be able to say, "But I never know if you're going to eat it if I bring it home!" Since my former self, having a fat day, might not eat the chocolate donuts he just brought me. He, on the other hand, if faced with bacon, regardless of dietary status, will consume with vigor.

2. I will not look at the state of the house as a reflection of my self worth or die a little inside when the baby fishes a toy from under the couch and brings with it a fistful of dog hair. Ditto for unfolded laundry and that brown substance in the bottom of the crisper in the fridge.

3. I will declare pooping as alone time. I can count on one hand the number of times I have gone to the bathroom with the door closed in the last six years. From now on I'm bringing a book.

4. I am currently doing this right now, but I will take the baby's nap time as my lunch hour and do what I want to do instead of the eight thousand things I have to do. I may take a nap myself.

Look for additions to this in the future as I'm sure after having my eyes opened I will see more and more of these differences. I can pat myself on the back for two things I already do that are typically "male" and I love them. I drive both the remote and the cars in this family and do both better than Hubby. (Shut up, H, you know you love John & Kate Plus 8!)

You got chocolate on my peanut butter!

After the rain passed this weekend we were blessed with one of those perfect fall Sundays -sunny, a little windy and cold enough to make me track down several pairs of mismatched mittens and congratulate myself on buying Little Man a pair last week so I wouldn't have to put socks on his little paws again like I had to earlier in the fall during an unexpected cold snap.  Hubby graciously took the kids up the street to the park while I frantically tried to change my summer clothes out of the closet.  I'm sure I'll finish this task only to need them again weeks later.

When my brood returned Hubby was talking to them about hot chocolate and while #2 has been jabbering about this libation since she saw it on Blues Clues, she had yet to actually try it.  This had my oldest feeling left out because she really doesn't like chocolate or chocolate flavored things.  I know!  The insanity of this is staggering.  If she doesn't like wine when she gets older I will know she was switched at birth.  

They say necessity is the mother of invention, but I say motherhood is the mother of invention.  How many great inventions out there were invented by mothers who saw a need and filled it?  The automatic dishwasher, for one, and for that we are all eternally grateful.  So I came up with a beverage to satisfy my oldest's weird disturbingly lacking palette.  My invention was no where near as life altering and you can actually order what I created at Starbucks, but I thought, "Why not make hot vanilla?"  So I warmed up some milk with a bit of sugar and poured in a little vanilla extract.  It was amazing!  And a curse.  If I hear #2 ask me for "hot banilla" one more time today I will scream.

This new beverage did make me think about the way we assume certain flavors go together and wonder why.  Like, why all hot drinks are coffee or chocolate flavored.  Hubby wonders about these food assumptions all the time whenever he tries, unsuccessfully, to buy a banana muffin.  "Why do they always have to have nuts???", he screams spitting the bits of what looked like a nut-free baked good out of his craw.  I tell him disliking that combo is like hating apples and cinnamon.  I, personally, can not understand sweet and savory in a main dish.  "And the special tonight comes with a mango salsa" - and an air sickness bag?  Bleh.  And anything with raspberry sauce makes me want to die.

Of course there are some combos that are classic and we can not imagine life without them. Chocolate and peanut butter?  What took so damn long for someone to invent the peanut butter cup?  Sour cream and onion?  Who is the snack food genius I have to thank for that as well as salt and vinegar?  My blood pressure rises just thinking of that delicious combo.  

I definitely do not put myself in the same league as these food pioneers.  In fact, Hubby is dying right now since he is an actual cook and the only examples of flavor innovation I gave all come in a bag and have a shelf life of approximately one hundred years, but this is the woman who thinks Ragu is a big treat (and no I don't consider it Italian food, it's a food group unto itself).  But I am proud that I have created a something my daughter will probably pass down to her kids.  Although maybe they'll be asking her someday, "Who the heck thought hot vanilla milk was good?  Gah!"

They have no idea...

...how good they have it.

I have just returned from an unexpected errand.  While trotting along happily on the treadmill, rocking it out to Christina Aguilera's "Keeps Gettin' Better" (Yuck it up.  Her music is so fun to run to and I knew there was a reason, back in the day, that I liked her better than the other two blond, teen sensations, Britney and Jessica.  Look at her now, happily married with a child while the other two lock themselves in bathrooms with their kids and troll the bar at Chateau Marmont looking for someone to tell her "it's tuna") when the phone rings.  It's the nurse at my oldest's school telling me my kid is in the office for the second time today complain of stomach pain, although with no fever or puking.

Now, #1 isn't really a comlpainer, nor does she challenge authority willy-nilly, so I'm pretty sure she's sick, and offer to come get her when the nurse asks me what I want to do.  Now I have to pull #2 out of her rest, ask the neighbor to listen for Little Man on the monitor since he's out like a light, change my sweaty-ass clothes and run down to the school.  

I get all of this accomplished in ten minutes and pull up in front as #1 is returning from gathering her things.  The smile on her face was evidence enough that I had been had.  We walk into the office together and as I'm signing her out I notice a name above hers in the log - that of a friend from class.  It seems she went home with a tummy ache as well.  Then I get her in the van and see the huge grim she gives her sister.  Now I'm pissed.  We get home, I put everyone in bedrooms for more rset time and after twenty minutes am greeted with a sheepish  #1 at my door telling me, "I feel better.  Can I play on the computer?"  Hells no.

Now we're gonna talk.  I explain that when you come home early from school there is no TV, no computer, no Wii, no fun with Mommy until 2:45, the hour school would normally let out.  Now while this is bullshit if my child were actually sick, and I would let them watch TV and provide much cuddling, I want to make this experience so boring that it is never repeated unless major illness strikes.  Because, seriously, these kids have no idea how good they have it.

As a latchkey child of the eighties, my mother worked in a small city thirty minutes away for a major financial company, and I had to be on death's door if I was coming home.  I remember clearly, getting on the phone with my mother while the nurse listened and she asked me, did I really need to come home?  There was no quick run down the street to be rescued.  The same was true of forgotten lunches and book reports.  I tell my kids this and  they look like I'm telling them my mother fed me ground rats for dinner.  "She wasn't home?"  Incredible!

So while I am pissed and amazed at what my children take for granted and I do have to keep reminding my daughter to leave me the hell alone because "Mommy still needs to get the work done she would normally do when you are at school", I also feel pretty good.  I feel good providing a sense of safety that I did not experience as a child (no hate, Dad).  I feel lucky that I am able to.  Today I reinforced to my kid that she can count on me whenever she needs me.  As a kid, I also remember clearly, thinking, "There's my beautiful mother, come to save me" when she finally arrived at school an hour later (my kids even take the lightening speed of said rescue for granted) and knowing I created that kind of joy for her today is really sort of awesome.

Ex-squeeze Me

Sorry about the short, cheap posts these past two days, but a weekday without Hubby around is extra hectic as I also have to squeeze in taking out garbage (and bringing in the cans even though you all know my tendency to let them roll around the neighborhood hoping they'll find their way home eventually), emptying the recycling and walking my humiliatingly still be-coned dog, into my already packed day.

A quick rant today. Why the hell can people not say "Excuse me" directly to children? I was at the grocery store today with #2 and Little Man and while on the best of days #2 meanders about like she has a bearing loose causing her internal balance to be slightly off, humming the theme song to Little Einsteins to herself, oblivious, she does respond to direct interaction. So why then, did this friggin' byotch in her velor track suit and Uggs have to stop her cart, stare at #2 impatiently, then give me the stink eye since I was taking two damn seconds to select an item from the shelf and wasn't monitoring the traffic pattern of my four year old? Well stink eye right back at ya', Carmela Soprano! Since my kid is not deaf and I'll asume you are not dumb (although dumb in the non-verbal sense does apparently apply) why don't you open your overly collagened, overly lip-glassed latte hole and simply say, "Excuse me."? I won't even ask you for a "honey" or "sweetie" since your ice-cold, Botox frozen heart probably couldn't manage that.

This happens all the time. With three kids it is impossible, lest I have an experimental surgery, to hold the hands of all my children at once. And not to toot my own horn, but, TOOT!, my kids are really well behaved in public and know Mommy's bringing the hammer if things get out of hand. And, no, they have not mastered the Western world's traffic pattern of passing on the right, they don't even know which way right is! So a little, less than straight walking is not a crime. Talk to the idiot with the screaming kid over there feeding him another Twinkie. I'm tired of people looking at me when my children wander in to their path, like my children are remote control toys and I'm driving. They have ears, they have brains! Mine also happen to have manners. Which, incidentally, are getting harder and harder to teach when they see grown-ass people not doing the right thing and speaking politely. This situation forces me to give the fake, "Honey, move over so the nice man can pass." which translates roughly to "Honey, please move over so this mannerless troglodyte can get out of out our sight."

So trashy suburban housewife (a term I reserve for the overly pampered, under educated, ridiculously entitled women I run into on a daily basis - I am not a housewife, I'm a working mother), don't think I didn't throw hate your way the entire time you walked out to your ridiculous Hummer, you stupid tart. When your little dog gets in my way the next time I'm at the park and we're on my turf I'll explain how it's payback when I kick it in the head.

Credit where credit is due...

Hubby rocked it this morning by sending these. It made the fact that the baby is still sick and needed to go to the doctor much easier to take. All of his jackassery aside, he is a really, really good egg. Good job, H!

Happy Birthday, Blog!

I can't believe it's been one whole year since I began this blog. A whole year since Hubby went to the Napa Valley for a work trip full of hot air balloon rides, wine tastings and dinners at five star restaurants leaving me with my then five and three year old daughters, an eleven week old baby recovering from a cold, and, developing the very morning he left, a horrible cold myself. A whole year since I was a sleep-deprived, raving lunatic spilling her guts into cyberspace in an effort to regain her sanity.

One year later, at least the sleep-deprived portion has improved and Hubby left yesterday for the yearly junket, this time in South Beach, Miami*. I marveled the night before he left how much had changed in just one year. How confident I felt having the kids all to myself for four days, day and night, compared to last year when I broke out in a cold panic-induced sweat when Hubby sheepishly told me what a good sign it was he had been chosen to go on this trip.

Fast forward to the pre-dawn hours of Saturday morning and Little Man awakes crying. He has a fever and a cough. Hubby tried to sleep through it, but I kick his ass out of bed telling him he's high if he thinks I'm getting up and to think of me as he naps on the plane. There go my plans for a fun-filled weekend at the aquarium and various child-centered fun spots. So I spend the morning tending to a sick, cranky baby and as my brother and sister in-law come over to mercifully take the girls to the movies for me (I had to get them out of the house at some point or it was going to get ugly fast) and my sister in-law is petting the dog, she notices his ear is bleeding profusely. Christ on a bike! Now I get on the horn to my fabu mother and father in-law who, of course, rush over to help, since I have already spent forty-five bucks on movie tickets for the kids and I'd sooner inflict my cranky-ass baby on my young brother and sister in-law than I would a case of small pox, and I can not haul said baby with me in the rain (of course it rained this weekend, did you doubt fate has it out for me?) while trying to drag my hundred pound, terrified yellow lab through the doors of the emergency vet (since, of course, our stupid vet is already closed).

The kids get off to the movies, my in-laws stay with Little Man, and I take Reilly (aforementioned, vet-phobic, obese dog) to the vet. Two hours later, I return home covered in dog hair from an examining room wrestling match, three hundred dollars poorer with a dog wearing a cone on his head and a yeast infection in his ear (see above). With the help of the gods (my in-laws) I get all three kids in bed and collapse on the couch.

So really, not all that much has changed after one year of cyber-emotional vomiting. Sure, I'm getting more sleep, my kids are older and more independent, but the big things remain the same. I'm still crazy, life is still unpredictable, and when I write about it it makes me feel a thousand times better.

Thank you, dear readers, for your hilarious responses (except for my sis, K - seriously, dial back on the funny, you make me look bad), and most of all for reading. If I didn't know there are some people in the same boat as I am or at least getting a good laugh from my Titanic of a life I wouldn't find the energy to do this one little thing for myself each day. Here's to another yer of Mean Mommy. Now let's have a drink! I think I deserve one, don't you?**

* Not much of a dancer, despises hair products, Hubby in South Beach=Fish out of water.
**Sadly, I can't as I am the only responsible adult in the house and I have visions of a paramedic having to show up to the house because I can't drive my kids to the ER since I've had half a glass of wine - past my three-babies-in-five-years limit.

The Fourteen Month Itch

The time has come again. It seems every time I reproduce, approximately fourteen months later, I have an existential crisis. It took me a while to categorize it as such rather than calling it "losing my shit" which was my general terminology previously. When I looked it up and found the definition "the psychologic panic and discomfort experienced when a human confronts the question of existence" - that pretty much hit the nail on the head. Let me 'splain.

When you first have a baby, all of your energy is focused on keeping this little being alive. The meaning of your existence is tied up in feeding, cleaning up excrement and sleep - or lack thereof. Then gradually, your offspring become more and more self sufficient. Time between feedings increases so you can actually get out of the house without a small human literally attached to you. He can play in his Exersaucer for fifteen minutes so you can shower regularly. He sleeps through the night and you finally stop feeling like a crazy, unwashed, lunatic who should be shuffling along the street muttering to herself wearing cardboard for shoes. Then the nursing ends and, before you know it, your little guy is eating sausage and broccoli rabe. He's napping for three predictable hours during the day and you realize he really doesn't need you, only you, to survive a day and the revelation is shocking.

Meanwhile, now that your brain is no longer atrophied by sleep deprivation, you start to have coherent thoughts again. Your every waking thought is not consumed with, "How long did he nurse?" or "When will he nap?". You start reading the newspaper again. You take a Mommy and Me class to meet other moms and set up some playdates to watch your kids stuff toys in their mouths while you compare notes on your lives as stay at home moms and maybe discuss your lives "before", but no one dares utter the truth. The truth that drove me to hysterics Tuesday morning as poor Hubby was trying to leave for work. STAYING AT HOME WITH YOUR KIDS CAN BE REALLY BORING. Yeah, I said it.

OK, let me qualify that. As I have said on countless occasions, being at home with my kids is a privilege as I get to experience all those great little things like The Underpants Game, but the day-to-day, non-crisis stuff really requires very little brain power. Sure, it takes some hard thinking when my daughter asks me what happens to a mouse when it dies (stupid thing drowned in the kiddie pool I forgot to drain), but sitting on the floor playing blocks with someone who has no powers of conversation yet can get old after about fifteen minutes no matter how damn cute he is.

As your baby is quickly becoming a toddler, you find you have more time and energy to think and now all that energy you used up stressing about infant-related issues is not being used up by your other SAHM duties. While it is physically and emotionally exhausting to care for three kids, I still have intellectual energy to spare. And while some women redirect that energy to have immaculately clean homes or becoming super-organized, sorting and labeling every item in their homes, I want to use it for other, selfish purposes.

Maybe it's just me, but I don't think so. I think our generation is in an interesting position. I think being educated with men and, therefore, developing the same dreams and ambitions we were given a gift and a burden. Is all of that supposed to evaporate once you reproduce? We have a clear picture of the path not taken, see many of our friends taking it, and think on some days, "I am too fucking smart to be doing this!"

One of my favorite authors Elizabeth Berg, writes about in The Pull of the Moon so beautifully I have to quote it:

"Remember the time Ruthie was napping on a Saturday afternoon and I sat in the living room literally tearing my hair out saying I was too smart to do this, that a chimpanzee could do what I was doing - better!, that I had to have more challenge and stimulation in my life or I was going to die? I remember you trying to help, suggesting I get a job, and how I screamed at you that I could never do that, I couldn't leave her with someone else. It is such a violent love, that of a mother for a young child. And I had to be there no matter what the cost. I knew I was missing some things, I could feel some brightness of the mind dulling; but on balance I loved what I did."

I sobbed when I read this for the first time because it so clearly stated what I couldn't. That even though I desperately wanted to many times, I could never leave my kids. And it is my own choice that is causing me to have this crisis.

So this brings us to Tuesday morning as I stand in the kitchen crying, cutting crusts off peanut butter sandwiches and tucking love notes to my kids in their lunch boxes, telling Hubby I need to accomplish something that has nothing to do with this family or will fling myself into traffic. The poor guy. He really does try, but when he suggested I get a babysitter one day a week to work on this rambling I call writing I snapped back, "Oh, sure! How can I justify a sitter and time to write when I can't even get the laundry folded and get dinner on the table?" I felt I barely had things under control as it was, never mind adding another ball to juggle. And the idea of taking money from our family so I could "find myself" seemed laughable.

This is exactly where I was three years ago when #2 was fourteen months*. Except this time Hubby and I were on the side of the New Jersey Turnpike as I sobbed. At that particular crossroads I decided to do some volunteer work and that developed into a stint as a medical aide at Planned Parenthood. It was amazing, leaving my kids for one and a half days a week and feeling like I was good at something other than wiping bottoms. I will forever be indebted to my mother in-law for making that possible. She saved my sanity, and that of her son and grandchildren.

So why the martyr act this time? Well, when I first thought about it , three kids seem like a lot to leave with someone and I felt even more selfish than doing it with two. But perhaps the strength and energy, physical and emotional, I need to care for my children is exactly what I will find when I take this next step. Because I have decided to take Hubby up on his offer and find a sitter. While it might seem more chaotic at first, I know from past experience, I will be a more balanced and better mother for it. Not matter how much time I have I will always be a somewhat disorganized mother. There will always be laundry to fold, dog hair needing to be vacuumed and, seriously, I really don't want to spend quality time with a label maker.

So wish me luck dear readers. Sittercity.com here I come.

*I did not experience this dilemma with daughter #1 as, by this point in her life, I had already managed to get myself accidentally knocked up and was obviously focused on my own terror at the idea of having two children less than two years apart.

The Very Hungry Mommy...

An adaptation from the book by Eric Carle. Dedicated to all the parents out there who subsist solely on the rejects from their children's plates and that which can be grabbed by the handful and who, like that caterpillar, make up for it with a vengeance on the weekends.

In the light of the moon a Mommy was awakened by her children.

Before the sun came up, POP!, out of bed came a tired and very hungry Mommy.

She started to look for some food.

On Monday she ate through one cold grilled cheese, but she was still hungry.
On Tuesday she ate through half of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, but she was still hungry.
On Wednesday she ate through one freezer-burned Lean Cuisine, but she was still hungry.
On Thursday she ate through three leftover soy nuggets, but she was still hungry.
On Friday she ate through one yogurt, slightly past its expiration date, but she was still hungry.

On Saturday, she ate through one bagel with cream cheese, half a chocolate donut, one Panera Chicken Frontega sandwich, one Strabuck's M&M cookie, one pumpkin spice latte, one order of fried calamari, one order of steak frites, one slice of carrot cake and five glasses of wine.

That night she had a stomachache.

On Sunday she at through one nice, green salad and after that she felt much better.

Now she was still tired, but she wasn't hungry anymore. She was a hungover and bloated Mommy. So she built a cocoon for herself out of her down comforter and sent her kids to the park with their Daddy.
A few hours later the family came back to check on their Mommy, pulled back the edge of the comforter and she was...

Asleep.

The Black Chuckle...

I'm having trouble typing this morning as my hands are trembling from Halloween candy-withdrawal DT's. I have spent the weekend fully exploiting one of the perks associated with parenting very small children - the right to steal their Halloween candy without any consequences. Hubby and I, in the course of two days, depleted by nearly half our progeny's hard-earned high-fructose booty and they are none the wiser. I know my time to enjoy this sugary treat oblivion is limited and in just a few short years my kids will know the number of Reeses's peanut butter cups and mini Snickers bars in their sacks the way Henry Paulson knows the national debt down to the penny, trying to make them last until Christmas.

This plastic pumpkin pilfering brought back a flood of memories from my own childhood and to eleviate the guilt I felt stuffing Kit Kat after Almond Joy into my mouth I thought about all the terrible candy my sister and I gave up willingly to our parents to keep their greedy mitts at bay. While we all have our own lists, which I am hoping you will share with me, I have a Monday Top 5 for you.

Top 5 Worst Halloween Candy (aka, Candy for Mom & Dad)

5. Chunky - I know some of you will be horrified I have included a chocolate item on my list because not much that is associated with chocolate can be bad (except for novelty shaped chocolate - weird). It is not the chocolate that I find offensive in this confection, rather the incredibly dense, brick-like quality of it. Embedded in said, density you will find raisins and peanuts. The peanuts I have no issue with, but the raisins, you kind of have to pull out with your teeth and they leave this weird raisin-shaped impression behind that always reminded me of Han Solo in carbon freeze and creeped me out. My father? Huge fan.

4. Mary Janes - Or really any candy that your parents had "penny candy"stories about (boring, now back away from my Hershey's, old man). The Mary Jane wrapper has a picture of a weird girl on it and is a putrid yellow. While I have grown to love them since I can not dislike anything peanut flavored, the weird textural combination of something taffy-like with peanut bits stuck in it reminded me of chewing gum after eating and getting food stuck in your gum. Bleh.

3. Old people candy - You know what I'm talking about. Anything from Brach's qualifies, but specifically, butterscotch candies. Also in this category, those strawberry flavored candies with the wrapper that tries to look like a real strawberry. If you can find it in your grandma's purse, it's a sucky Halloween treat.

2. Good and Plenty - My mother's favorite, Good and Plenty's with their intense licorice flavor, could blow the taste buds off a five year old's tongue. I was desperate to enjoy them as a child with their adorable pink and white color scheme, but once you cracked off that cheerful coating a jaw-breaking, tongue-burning experience made you regret trying.

1. Chuckles - Specifically the evil, black one. Getting a pack of Chuckles was a score on Halloween because you got five giant gum drops. While not really that tasty, the sheer magnitude of sugar was enough to make you appreciate them as a kid. Ignoring the alarming contrast in consistency between the chewy gum drop and the crunchy sugar they were coated in (which felt like eating something that had been dropped in a sandbox), the flavors were the usual pleasant artificial cherry, lemon, lime and orange. And then there was the black one. How can candy be black? How did this creation pass testing phase? The black Chuckle was so bad my sister and I would dare each other to eat it. Again, a fave with my moms, and she could have 'em.

So Happy belated Halloween to you all. I hope you all have more honest sources of candy to enjoy. My middle one melted my heart yesterday when she handed me a peanut butter cup saying, "Is this your favorite Mommy?" not knowing I had eaten the other fifteen she had culled from the neighbors.