Ain't No Thang but a Chicken Wing.

So Hollywood award season is finally over.  Does it not seem unfortunate to you, as it does to me, that this season kicks off right after the holidays?  It's got to be hard, as a celebrity, to enjoy your pumpkin pie and eggnog when you know Zach Posen is going to be shooting daggers at you if he can't zip up your dress when zero hour comes.

Awards season draws attention not only to great performances, but also to the fashion choices and appearance of the stars of the silver screen.  Perhaps, sadly, the latter more than the former for female stars, as the social movement #AskHerMore created by The Representation Project pointed out.  At least this year the ridiculousness of the "Mani Cam" was minimized as more celebs spent time answering thoughtful questions about their lives and work than marching their hands down a miniature red carpet like five year-olds with Barbie boots on their fingers.

I realize I sound as if I dislike the fashion component of these shows. Au contraire, mon frère.  I start pre-gaming the red carpet coverage right after lunchtime on Oscar Sunday.  My Oscar party this year required the attendees dress for the red carpet.  I am all in when it comes to red carpet fashion.  What I do not like is when fashion and these public situations body-shame women or promote unhealthy ideals in young (and old) women.

Most, or maybe all red carpet commentators, now that Joan Rivers has shuffled off the mortal coil, are aware enough that fat jokes and snide comments about weight don't fly with the audience anymore.  They have become enlightened.  But still, there lurks among the actresses about to be lauded for their craft, a certain tension, an insecurity.  "Pshaw, Mean Mommy! How do YOU know?"

I can tell by the way they stand.  You all know what I am talking about.

The Chicken Wing.

Ugh, that pose. Arm bent at almost a right angle, and hand on hip, elbow stuck out to the side. The bright, candy coating of false sassiness so often used to cover up a bitter center of body insecurity.

I hate it.

The idea, of course, is by keeping the arm away from the body, it appears slimmer.  Any bat-wing situation is mitigated with the upper arm being turned forward. We have all suffered the indignities of unflattering photos.  Well, those of us from the primordial days of (gasp!) film photography.  I can so clearly remember the feeling of ripping open the packet of sorority semi-formal photos at the drugstore photo counter, then asking in confusion, "Is that a thigh?  Wait, that's my ARM!"  The scent of developer mixing with self-loathing as I trudged back to the dorm.

It's not the action of trying to put one's body in the best possible position that bothers me.  What bothers me is the falseness.  The almost begging for approval from the camera this posture represents with its unnaturalness.  We all look frozen - beautiful like Barbie - limbs frozen at odd, impractical angles that really serve no purpose in real life.  I can count on my hand the number of times I might have naturally struck this pose in my life.  One hand on the hip is usually accompanied by the other and I'm most likely also yelling.

The pose I'd like to see sweep the red carpet next year is The Proud Necklace.* Proud Necklace requires you to stand up straight, throwing your shoulders back, arms slightly and naturally held away from the body, with your chest forward - as if showing off a necklace. Go ahead.  Try it.  I'll wait.

How did that make you feel?  Strong, right?  Proud.  Like you could kick someone's ass.

Now do the The Chicken Wing.  Your chest naturally collapses and your posture goes to shit.  You feel weak and like a sissy.  Oh, but you look skinny.  Shut up.  Stand up like a big girl and face the camera like you own it.

Look at these photo of J. Law.  Same dress, same night, totally different feeling.  She just looks uncomfortable and unsure in the top shot.  Well, she's never really all that comfortable with photogs anyway, but still.  In the bottom shot she looks strong.  You know, like Katniss.  Not Katniss's sassy sister.

 I have found one actress who almost completely eschews the Chicken Wing, and it's no surprise because she is funny and kicks ass and in my fantasy world she play me in the movie of my life.  Sandra Bullock.  Sandy is not fucking around on the red carpet.  She is a grown-ass woman and she knows how to pose like one.

You will be hard-pressed to find a Chicken Wind photo of Sandy.  In fact, I couldn't.  Yeah, she occasionally does the "holding-a-clutch-both-elbows-bent" or the "look-at-my-guns-while-I-hold-my-goddamn-Oscar-bitches", but those arm positions look normal because she's, you know, holding something, requiring her arms to bend.  Not just the weight of societal expectations.

Men don't put themselves through this vertical game of Twister every time they are photographed.  Ok, you have a point, not much of them is exposed.  But if they were, would they engage in this Tomfoolery?  The only stupid pose men have is that smug-crossed-arm-non-chalant thing and that's only for certain slimeballs on the cover of business magazines.  The nice guys just stand there.

Can't we women just stand there? Can't we all agree to this change?  Let's make this a grassroots movement.  Be proud.  Be strong.  Be yourself - floppy arms and all.  Better to be a confident looking version of your perfectly flawed self, than an insecure replica trying to be someone she's not. If we all stop striking this ridiculous pose at weddings and in Facebook pictures we could change the world.

One selfie at a time.

*Trademark - my trainer Kevin

June Blues

The school year is finally over!  We survived starting middle school, changes in friends, repeating kindergarten, over-volunteering - all of it with our sanity (mostly) intact.  And while I am thrilled to be at the start of my favorite season, I realized this joy I am feeling is also tinged with a little sadness.

I think it's alway been this way since my kids were in school.  I used to think it was just the stress of the end-of-the-year nonsense that caused this slightly negative undercurrent come June.  Things like making cupcakes for the end of year parties (no nuts! no dyes!) and buying teacher gifts (is a Starbucks gift card OK for the custodian who let me in the school after hours that one time?) can drive you mad when all you want to do is crack out the beach umbrella and head to the shore already.

Then it dawned on me. I am actually grieving a little bit at the end of every school year.  I am mourning the people my kids were this year.  The people they are now will be distinct individuals in my memory and they will be gone.  Never again will they be a kindergartener, a 4th grader and a 6th grader. When they are grown and one of them says, "Remember that time in kindergarten?", my mind will conjure the chubby-cheeks and dimpled fingers and miss that child as if he or she were not standing right in front of me.

The end of the school year marks the passage of time way more than birthdays ever could. Moving up ceremonies, and mini-graduations with their construction paper mortar boards and "Pomp and Circumstance" bleated out on plastic recorders, bulging backpacks containing the contents of emptied desks, the tattered evidence of a year's learning providing us with crayon and pencil evidence of our children's growth - all of these things are mile markers on our kids' road to adulthood.  And the trip is going too fast.  Maybe that's why I throw myself into summer with wild abandon each year.  Having been reminded on this last day that time is quick and sneaky, I try to wrestle it to the ground and make it stay still for eight weeks.

So welcome, Summer.  If the end of the school year is the end of an era, let this season be a celebration of what was, what is yet to come and of RIGHT NOW.

Stop the clocks, let the days roll with their own momentum.

Pause.  Be.

Sending a "Thank You" out into the universe...

Motherhood often feels like a never-ending college course – you are constantly learning, always working, and occasionally pulling all-nighters.  One major difference? The lack of grades.  You may get a decent mark on a pop quiz, such as handling an impromptu “where do babies come from?” discussion in the van on the way home from karate, but the final grade, the big question, “did I raise good, happy, successful people?” goes unanswered for many, many years.  It can be hard to stay the course, wondering if the choices you are making are doing any good at all.

This past week though , I received some encouragement to keep fighting the good fight from a woman I barely knew, and whose life was cut tragically short on January 31st.

Anne Heyman was a lawyer, philanthropist, humanitarian and mother of three.  Among her many charitable works, Anne conceptualized and helped found the Agahozo-Shalom Youth Village in Rwanda, a village that houses and educates hundreds of orphans from the Rwandan genocide of the 90s.  This was my first encounter with Anne (her husband was CEO of the firm H worked for in 2007), and his wonderful, socially-minded company became the village's corporate partner.  Family members were encouraged to get involved, and having a newborn and two toddlers at home, the best I could do was gather items needed for the children of the village.  I wonder if Anne got a laugh, thinking about the woman who actually accepted the challenge of fundraising for, then buying and transporting to midtown Manhattan, two pallets of maxi-pads to be shipped to Africa.  By the way, that was a SUPER fun Costco trip which did not result in any odd stares at all.

Of course, I was impressed by Anne and all she had done for the world at large, but it wasn't until after her passing, when H was sitting at the dinner table recounting the events of her funeral, that I was able learn what she had done for the smaller world of her family.

H described the funeral service, including all the emotional speeches given by friends and family, but it was the words of her children that stuck with him most. Anne's daughter talked about all the things her mother had done with her and her brothers - trips taken and museums visited.  All the memories they had created.  Anne's son joked about how she made them share a bedroom, despite having an extra one available in the house, to be sure they all stayed close growing up.  H looked up at me, barely able to speak. "It was like our kids talking about you."

There they were, two of my biggest mothering aspirations - to give my kids happy, lasting memories of their childhood while showing them the world, and to create a close-knit, loving sibling unit to support them when H and I were gone.  Anne had accomplished them both, and had done it beautifully.  Hearing this story, was like hearing an urgent whisper from the universe telling me, "You're doing it right, keep going!"

I am writing this to thank Anne, even though I didn't know her, and to help her light shine a little farther into the world.  It is women like her who inspire me to be a better person and a better mother and I hope some of you, in the trenches with me, also take heart from Anne's example.  The good we do lives on after us, even if we can't see that good currently because we are arguing over why the XBox needs to be turned off right now and, yes, everyone has to come play Chutes and Ladders because it's Family Game Night and it's your brother's turn to pick.

Thank you, Anne, for giving me the encouragement I need to keep fighting for the family I want to create.  Whenever I think I maybe all of this is too hard,  I will think of you and your children and know what I'm doing is right.

Thank you for being my mothering guardian angel.  

It's not you, it's them.

This past Saturday, H and I were partaking in one of our favorite evening activities - drinking wine while making fun of the Williams Sonoma catalogue.  Did you know they sell chicken coops now?  While imagining rooftops in Park Slope surrounded in the green cloud of rotting stench associated with raising poultry, we chuckled warmly together, and I had the realization H and I hadn't had a really big argument in a while.  OK, that sounds weird.  Yes, we still bicker about someone's inability to actually put the garbage in the cage under the deck, allowing raccoons to have a catered rave in our driveway, and someone els'e incessant need to vacuum "right now or all this dog hair will drive me insane", but otherwise, it has been pretty smooth sailing as of late.

Had we had some kind of interpersonal growth spurt?  We were more highly evolved emotionally?  Should we write some kind of self-help book for couples?  What was our magic formula?

Our kids got older.

Let me be the one to tell you what no one ever bothered to tell H and me.  YOUR VERY YOUNG CHILDREN ARE TRYING TO KILL YOU AND RUIN YOUR MARRIAGE BY DEPRIVING YOU OF THE BASIC MEANS OF SURVIVAL.

Don't believe me?  Take food, for example.  The obvious is that babies are literally taking nutrients from their mother's body.  Due to my complete inability to remember to take a calcium supplement with any regularity, my skeleton probably looks like it's made of swiss cheese.  But let's not neglect poor fathers in this equation.  They also suffer from the side effect of having little kids which is never having time to prepare any decent food or actually sit down to consume a meal.  While parenting small children you are either half-starved, with no memory of the last time you had sustenance, or over-full from just having stuffed handful after handful of Goldfish in your mouth in a low-blood-sugar frenzy.

And what about sleep?  After food and water, sleep is one of the basic necessities for proper human function.  Sleep becomes to parents of young children what sex was when you first got together.  You fantasize about it all the time, and when you get it, it's never enough.  Studies show lack of sleep increases the risk of heart disease, stroke and high blood pressure.  Experts say driving while exhausted is as dangerous as driving drunk (so is driving with a van full of screaming children). Sleep deprivation increases the chance of weight gain and decreases memory skills.  Even if you survive this gauntlet that is raising little ones, waddling around in your too-tight jeans looking for your car keys, a heart attack waiting to happen, will your marriage survive?  It's not that there is anything inherently wrong with your choice of partner, but is the scarcity of these resources  that has you at each other's throats.

At dinner time, one of you gets to shove strained peas into the baby's maw, while one of you gets to eat.   Or you wait until the baby has eaten to have your dinner and then one of you still has to have one on the kid and one eye on their plate.  Family parties take this scenario to a whole new level.  In addition to getting to chase your toddler around for an hour to ensure he or she doesn't break any of Aunt Millie's Hummel figurines, once the party food is served, one of you has to stay on duty while the other gets to chow down.   Never have I wanted to take H's life with my own two hands, than early in our parenting years, when he would fix himself a plate in these situations and start tucking in.  Those few times I was usually trapped in the other room nursing a baby, since a baby's need to eat right now is directly proportional to how hot the mother's food is, but that is a very thin defense and we still engaged in more than one heated whisper fight in a coat-filled bedroom.  Babies turn us into cavemen, beating our chests and (quietly) fighting over food in public.

When it came to sleep during our baby days, I wished I had a time clock for H and I to punch in and out so he would have hard evidence of how many hours I had spent awake, nursing, compared to those he spent asleep.  Exhaustion turned me into a miserly, minute-counting sleep Scrooge.  Back before our body clocks had permanently changed to those of dairy farmers, we took turns sleeping in on Saturday and Sunday.  I let H go first on Saturday, not out of any generosity of spirit, but so I could keep track of how late he slept and make sure I got my fair share on Sunday. If H dared ask to take a nap, I laughed the laugh of the righteous in his face, telling him if anyone in this house was napping, it was going to be me.  Yeah, I was a good time back then.  We were both losers in everybody's favorite game "Who's More Exhausted?"

I guess, to be kinder and more accurate, no one tells you, while your kids are little, there is nothing wrong with your marriage, and neither one of you has permanently turned into a bitch/asshole.  Your kids have just done this to you temporarily with their relentless needing and you will return to your normal, loving selves around the time your youngest is potty-trained (I forgot to mention, playing hot potato with a shitty baby is also another fun power struggle).

Think about early parenting like being a contestant on the game show Survivor.  The contestants are terrible to each other when they are starving and exhausted on the island, but they all love each other on the reunion special once it's all over.  At least your kids will eventually become less annoying.  You can't say that for Jeff Probst.

Gettin' busy

"That doesn't look so good."

I'm bent over the bathroom sink while H looks at my left ass cheek, sadly, not in that way.  It's December 23rd, and while running about, mainlining peppermint mocha lattes, and putting the finishing touches on Christmas,  I have developed a horrible, burning rash on my one buttock.  I can't wear real pants, as the idea of sliding anything but soft, cottony yoga pants over my skin makes me break out in a cold sweat.  Being a back sleeper, I haven't had a solid night of shut-eye in days, so between the exhaustion and wearing nothing but stretchy pants, I feel like I have a newborn again.  I have also now realized how often H slaps me playfully on the rear, which has been putting him in mortal danger in my current state.

Of course I had attempted treating it.  First I thought it was a reaction to new detergent and tried cortisone cream.  Nothing.  Then H thought it looked like some funky stuff that used to grow on him during his hockey days (quite the recommendation for that sport, no?).  At which point I realized I had left my barre class sweaty on several occasions during the busy holiday season to run to some store of another - apologies to the customers in line behind me each time - I'm sure I smelled dee-licious.   So I tried anti-fungal cream and it only got worse.

It was time to go to the doctor or I would spend the Christmas I had put in so many man hours preparing sleep-deprived and scratching my ass in sweatpants.

"Nope, that's not contact dermatitis or tinea (not-foot athlete's foot) ", says Dr. B, as I stand in front of him, naked from the waist down, in the middle of the exam room.  Sidebar:  It is INCREDIBLE how little modesty you have after squeezing, not just one human, but three, out of your lady parts in front of a small audience.  All my previously "naughty bits", are now completely functional bits and I feel as embarrassed about showing them to someone as I do showing off unshaven legs.  Not ideal, but it won't keep me up all night cringing with shame.

"That's shingles."  Whaaat?  Didn't I just see a pharmaceutical commercial for some drug related to that malady featuring a Baby Boomer?  I, technically, wasn't even forty yet!  I had four days left!

It seems shingles can be brought on be stress at a younger age.  Stress?  What stress?  Sure, it was the holiday season with all that entails and, pre-shingles, I was only sleeping five, maybe six hours a night, with to-do lists constantly running through my head, but was that enough stress to cause my immune system to allow a dormant virus to rear it's ugly head and have a drunken holiday party complete with making photo copies of its ass on my dermis?  Apparently, yes.

So I left with a prescription for what is actually herpes medication, and was thrust back into the Christmas whirlwind.  And, no, getting that prescription filled at the local pharmacy in my small town was not awkward at all.

Within three days, I was completely cured, but I was left with an uneasy feeling about the whole incident.  My mother had died, when she was only three years older than I was, from complications of a stress-related immune disorder.  Was I following in her footsteps?

Things needed to change.  Now.

It seems, over the last eleven years, my life has picked up velocity, until each day it feels like I start it being shot out of a cannon.  If I had to choose one word to describe the way I have felt most days recently, the word that pops into my head is "pushing".  Like Sisyphus, I am behind a boulder that returns to its starting position at the dawn of each day.  Yes, there are things that absolutely have to get done to keep this family functioning - grocery shopping, errands, laundry and cooking - but when I really looked at my days, I was spending a lot of time doing stuff in pursuit of that wily temptress...Perfection.  I have in my head an image of what the home and life of a successful, forty year-old, stay-at-home-mother should be and, true to my type-A personality, that's what my home and life were going to be like.  Living this way, the to-do list is never completed, it only ever gets longer.  There is always one more thing to do.

Adding to my self-induced mania, is the insidious message from the world at-large that running on all cylinders, all the time, is normal.  Being stressed has become the status quo for the American adult.  The constant motion, the incessant checking of our texts, our emails, our Facebook is de rigueur .  We are always doing, doing, doing, running, running, running on Dunkin', or Starbucks or Red Bull, but where are we getting?  How much of it is really necessary and how much of it is conditioned learning?

As David Thoreau wrote, "It is not enough to be busy. So are the ants. The question is: What are we busy about?"

On the eve of my 40th birthday I asked myself what is was I was busy about.  Some of it was wonderful, such as interacting meaningfully with my kids - reading to them, doing crafts, and taking trips.  I feel most myself when coaching Girls on the Run, leading Girl Scouts, and volunteering at the school.  And, of course, there are my two loves, running and writing.  But sadly, those pastimes were not taking up most of my waking hours.  Instead my hours were filled with, housework, such as cleaning out the bathroom vanity (is H actually clipping his toenails in there?), bullshit errands, like buying a sink liner and organizing, for example, our shithole of a garage after it had been trashed, yet again, by children too busy to properly put away their bikes, scooters and rollerblades. I asked myself, "How many years do you have left?"  If I were my mother?  Three.  While premature death may not be in my future, did I want to spend the next 40 years living this way?

So my 40th birthday gift to myself has been to spend more time doing what I love and only the time required to do what I have to do.  This may seem like a "duh" conclusion, but it has required the Herculean task of silencing my inner critic.  She's quite a demanding bitch, that one, and she's been reigning on my head for forty years.  It has also required that I stop (OK, try to stop) caring about what other people think, which, when I am brutally honest with myself I care about...a little too much.  To help in this endeavor, I borrow, from my friend S, a term she was introduced to not so long ago.  The "Fuck You" Forties.  Meaning, this is the decade I will finally start doing whatever the hell it is I want and anyone who doesn't like it can go fuck themselves.  This doesn't mean I can let the house turn into a pig sty or never do another load of laundry, but it does mean there can be eggs for dinner because I spent the afternoon having lunch with a friend and I'll go to the grocery store tomorrow.  I used to marvel at the women I knew who did that, had lunch with friends, or saw a movie during the day or found time to read books when not on vacation.  I have realized, it happens because they make it happen. 

You have to be an active participant in your own happiness on a daily basis.  I was the only one sentencing myself to a life of drudgery and my new "FUF" mindset has given me the key to setting myself free.

I know I am in a unique, and privileged, position, being able to shape my days as I see fit, but we all have at least a little time which we get to spend however we want.  Unless you have an infant.  In that case, Godspeed, and I'll see you in twelve months.  I urge you to take a hard look at how you are spending your time and ask the question, "What am I busy about?".

Then get busy about something you love.

It's my turn to play....

The weather has been gorgeous here in New Town, so Little Man and I have been spending a lot of time at local playgrounds.  I throw a water bottle and snack in my purse, along with sunscreen and some bandaids and we're good to go (I never realized the mothers of young boys physically can not leave the house without bandaids).  I bring my Kindle with us and when we get to the park I settle in on a shady bench for a nice long read.

When I look up to make sure LM isn't having some kind of jungle gym-related crisis, I see a mom trying to push a toddler on a swing while simultaneously joggle the infant in her Baby Bjorn and she seems to be giving me the stink eye.  Little Man is nicely playing with another kid, and there hasn't been any screaming, so I know my kid hasn't done anything to her kid.  Then I realize I am sitting and reading, childless and undisturbed, in a skirt and flats, apparently having showered recently.  I remember being on the delivering end of that look all too well.

Nine long years ago, I recall being the mother of one toddler and entering what appeared to be the Thunderdome - or at least that's what the playground seemed to me at the time.  It was teaming with screaming, six year-old hellions, running across the wobbly bridge, scattering pre-schoolers in their wake, and it featured a toddler-crushing gauntlet composed of multiple playground swings.  These were the days when I myself had to climb Mt. Playmobile and hope I wouldn't humiliate myself getting my baby-weight-bearing hips lodged at the top of the slide after the incline proved too terrifying for my wee one to conquer alone.  My arms still ache from the memory of supporting a toddler's full body weight so she could make it across the monkey bars "all by herself" while I dodged swinging feet inches from my face.

Then I had another kid and the playground became even more fun as I enjoyed speed-nursing on a bench while hoping my older one wouldn't run a kamikaze mission in front of the swings while I was occupied (why do they DO that?)  And I loved trying to stop an infant from trying to eat handful after handful of wood chips when she wouldn't stay on the blanket I had futily plopped her on at the edge of the play area to prevent her from being trampled.  The only break I got was when the little one was on the swings because one of my offspring was imprisoned and it allowed me a few minutes to stand completely upright.

I too used to look at "those" mothers on the benches with a mixture of disdain and jealousy.  Disdain because I didn't think they were working as hard as I was and jealousy because, well, they were sitting down during daylight hours and they weren't even on a toilet.  What I didn't know back then was "those" mothers, among whose lucky ranks I now count myself, had earned that spot on the bench with blood, sweat and slide rash.  They had been through the siege and had earned some R&R in the form of a rapidly-cooling takeout cup of coffee and a chapter of the new David Sedaris.

So to you mothers coming up behind me and just entering "the yard", spare me your derision.  I have done my time.  I have also taught my kids the basics - Wait your turn.  Don't climb up the slide the wrong way.  Stay off those boingy, ride-on animals meant for toddlers and don't rock the bouncy bridge when little kids are present.  Generally, don't be a playground dick.  - Because of this hard work, I don't need to hover around them anymore.

Let's make a deal. You scramble after your kids, and I will scream at mine, "WATCH OUT FOR THE BABIES!", every three pages.

Don't worry, sister.  You'll be sitting next to me soon enough.

Dr. Ferber and Dr. Ruth

"It's true, it's one of the secrets that no one ever tells you. I would sit around with my girlfriends who have kids - and, actually, my one girlfriend who has kids, Alice - and she would complain about how she and Gary never did it anymore. She didn't even complain about it, now that I think about it. She just said it matter-of-factly. She said they were up all night, they were both exhausted all the time, the kids just took every sexual impulse they had out of them. " - Sally, from When Harry Met Sally

Is it a secret?  Really?  Isn't one of the things people joke about after you tell them you are expecting your first child is that along with sleep, and eating a hot meal simultaneously as a couple, sex will become one of those things you only get to do when you are away from the kids for the night?  Once I was walking evidence of the sex I was having with my husband, I was afraid we might not actually ever have it again.  I would look at people who had multiple children and wonder, if everyone moves to Chastity Town  after their first kid, how did they ever procreate again?  How did The Old Woman Who Lived in the Shoe do it?

Then I had my baby and it all became clear.  When it comes to sex after kids, there are various stages and there is a definite sweet spot.

Stage One is the "Are You Fucking Kidding Me?" Stage.  This phase usually lasts for the first eight to ten weeks post-partum.  Use what ever euphemism you'd like, shitting a bowling ball seems to be a favorite, but I think, the sentence , "I just passed a human head  out of my vagina." is enough to convey the painful physics involved in childbirth and the reluctance a woman may feel to put anything else in there for a while afterwards.  In my own case, I was kept blissfully unaware of the damage #1's giant noggin had done to my lady bits until I was preparing for #2's birth and the doctor, reviewing the notes from my last delivery, murmured, "third degree tear, but rectum intact".  Well.  Thank God for small favors.  

Luckily, women are put in a medically-induced chastity belt for the first six weeks after birth.  So our poor husbands, many of whom have not had any sex in the last few months, know not to even bother trying.  Once I was medically cleared though, I felt like H was envisioning me as a turkey with those little paper hats on its drumsticks, like a starving cartoon character.  So with leaking breasts and barely having stopped wearing maternity pants, women reenter the world of intercourse.  There are two liquids that make this possible - wine and lube.  I don't know how women with no access to either of these ever get back in the sack.  The wine  is to get your head out of mommy-mode, wondering when the baby will next wake and want to use your breasts for their intended function.  And the lube?  See above: but rectum intact.  

Once you get over the hurdle that is your first time post-partum, things can pretty much get back to normal.  I can hear the collective gasps of disbelief.  "What?  Aren't you so exhausted from having a baby to care for that you can't even think about sex?"  Nope, now you enter Stage Two, the "Mr. Sandman is my Pimp" Stage.

When your kids are under the age of three, they sleep a lot.  Or they should at least - my apologies to anyone who has had a sleep-challenged baby.  Most kids sleep about twelve hours a night, giving parents an hour or two on either end to chose to go at it.  H and I would get #1 to sleep at seven, and crack open a bottle of wine, knowing we could have drinks, dinner, and fool around , without having to stay up past ten.  And naptime?  That is God's gift to parents on weekends.  The person who wrote the song "Afternoon Delight" was clearly the parent of small children.  The other bonus of having little kids is that for the first few years they are prisoners in those tiny baby jails called cribs, so there are no nocturnal wanderings to worry about.   And once they do graduate to a bed, they are such dopes any unfortunate interruptions can be pawned off as "Mommy and Daddy were playing" without any psychological harm.  Typically, Stage Two is when most siblings are conceived.  Having had three babies in five years, I am living proof.  This makes sense, and this stage is useful if you plan on having multiple kids.  But you better hurry up because Stage Three is coming.  The "I Left My Mojo on the Soccer Field" Stage.

Feel free to insert an activity your kids partake in regularly, football, dance, piano lessons, but once your kids reach school age your sex life become a logistical nightmare.  In Stage Three, you are on the go all the time, so not only are you never home, but naps are clearly a thing of the past.   Daytime booty is out for the most part, unless, Like H and I, you "clean the attic" a lot while the kids play Wii for half an hour.  As for the evenings, your children are staying up later.  The grown-up portion of the evening used to start at the dot of seven.  Now, come nine o'clock, you are finishing up Teen Beach Movie on Disney channel, while trying to keep your own eyes open after twelve hours of carting your kids to various activities.  Once you do get the progeny off to bed, they are fully mobile and capable of rational thought, so being walked in on becomes a real issue. Or maybe that's just us.  We live in an old house with no bedroom locks and my husband is not handy.  I should tell him a few hours at Home Depot might improve his life drastically.   Anyway, they may not know what sex is exactly, but they know you're not "having a tickle fight" anymore.  And sleepovers?  Forget it.  It's hard enough to have sex with your own kids in the house.  I have been firmly stuck in Stage Three and will be for a while now, with Little Man just having turned six.  You become like the Macgyvers of intercourse, quick and resourceful.  It's not always pretty, but it gets the job done.

I know there must other stages.  Like Stage Four, the "Quick Let's Do It Before We Have to Pick Them Up From the Mall" Stage, when all of our kids have various evening activities that will give us a few precious hours alone.  And Stage Five, the "We Are Finally Alone Again!" Stage, when everyone goes off to college.  I know we'll get there some day.  My fear is we will be suffering from some of these age-related sexual conditions vaguely referred to in pharmaceutical ads.  But then again, that's what the meds are for.

I have said before, these are the years you have to fight to defend your marriage from the assault of family life, and your sex life is part of that.  Keeping a strong connection may take some creativity, and require your last bit of energy, but isn't your partner worth it?  Sure, there are plenty of times one of you is too tired, or not in the mood, and certain instances of charity occur, but keeping the fires burning with those small sparks, keeps the flame form going out entirely, and allows it to flare up on those rare occasions you do find yourselves alone in a hotel room.  OK, I'm done with the fire metaphor.  It's getting a little weird.

For those of you in Stage Two, enjoy it while it lasts.  Consider yourself informed, Sally.

See You (In Hell) September

I'm sweating as I rush into the Starbucks, dying for an iced coffee on our way to the pool one last time before school starts tomorrow.  Standing in line, going into autopilot, reciting my "Reasons Why You Can Not Have a Cake Pop Before Lunch" speech, I notice the woman in front of me is wearing Uggs and orders a Pumkpin Spice Latte.  Record scratch.  A what?  I look around me.  There is a cartoon of the Headless Horseman drawn on the the menu board, the ice cube decals advertising cold beverages that used to dot the windows are gone.  They have been replaced by signs for the PSL, Pumpkin Spice Latte, now given an acronym for its tenth anniversary.

Oh, September.  You again?

Don't get me wrong, I like fall as much as the average person.  Bright, crisp days, apple-picking, pumpkins, beautiful, fall foliage, cider donuts - those are all pretty enjoyable.  Especially the donuts.  It's the horrible transition month of September I hate with the firs of a thousand suns.  It seems the minute the calendar turns from the eighth month to the ninth, we are supposed to forget that just a few days ago we were still on the beach and throw on a wool sweater.

Maybe it's not September's fault.  Maybe it's where it falls in the change of seasons.  With the other seasons there is a gradual transition.  Fall to winter is heralded by dropping temperatures and the gentle falling of leaves, a bit at a time, until the limbs are bare and it starts to snow.  We throw on an extra layer, but we were already pretty chilly in fall, so there's no great gnashing of teeth. Going from a PSL (I might assault the first person not employed by Starbucks to use this abbreviation - you have been warned) to a Peppermint Mocha doesn't seem that big a change.  Winter to spring, the crocuses slowly push their way out of the ground.  We can watch the snow melt knowing warmer days are coming.  Holidays like St. Patrick's Day and Easter get us geared up for the next season.  Tired of rich, winter fare, foods like asparagus and fava beans come into season giving us a taste of green.  Spring to summer, the world gets greener and more vibrant, school is winding down and we look forward, with anticipation, to unscheduled days by the pool.  Produce abounds and we enjoy it all.

But Summer to fall?  Summer to fall is like someone turning on the lights at the end of the party.  You were all drunk and having fun and now it's time to go find your coat.  September takes the blame for flipping the switch, I suppose.

The weather in September stinks.  One day is sixty-five degrees, the next is ninety-five.  We all want to act like fall has officially begun and jump the gun with sweaters and boots.  It's as if we get one fifty-eight degree morning and we all pack away our shorts and t-shirts.  Even when the first day of school is sure to be a scorcher, my children will try to persuade me into letting them wear long sleeves, and maybe even a sweater.  Apple picking, a favorite September activity, conjures up images of scarves and cable knit sweaters, does it not?  Then we go wearing said items while paying for the privilege of being migrant workers, only to lose ten pounds of sweat weight.  My closets and drawers look like a rummage sale gone awry as I pull out a few warmer items for the kids out of the attic, but can't put away their summer clothes either.  I always feel a little bit cold or a little bit hot the entire month like I'm the Goldilocks of weather.

The food also stinks in this betwixt and between month.  Come fall, we have all had our fill of burgers, hot dogs, and other barbecue foods.  Turning to my recipe file, I consider things like stews and roasts and, of course, on the days I have planned to cook those dishes it's an inferno outside and the idea of chili repulsive.  And what is in season in early Fall? We are weary of tomatoes, zucchini and corn, but roasted butternut squash just feels wrong.  And why, whyyyy, does every edible food item become available in pumpkin flavor in September?  They are making Pumpkin Spice M&Ms and Pumpkin Pie Spice Pringles.  Although, I must be among the vast minority of humans who think artificially pumpkin-flavored foods are about as appetizing as vomit.  The only thing that should be pumpkin-flavored is PUMPKIN.  Along with sarin gas, this artificial flavor should be considered a chemical weapon.

Of course, you all know I hate back to school, the New Year's Day of September.  The relaxed atmosphere of the Mean Mommy household evaporates like water off a beach towel come the first day.  The superstores prematurely try to kill my buzz in August with their clever commercials.  No matter how funky the school-band version of "Push It" was, my kids and I ran from the family room with fingers stuck in our ears to avoid the idea of summer ending.  The schedules, the forms, the meetings, the school supplies.  Maybe if I had paid attention to those commercials I wouldn't get stuck in what looks like the bank run scene from It's a Wonderful Life at my local Staples.

In a few weeks, my disdain will ebb.  The weather will make it less ridiculous to crack out the Luke Skywalkers and I will begin lighting cinnamon candles in the house.  But right now, with the laundry still carrying the lingering scent of sunscreen, and beach sand still making its way out of our shoes and luggage, I can't picture it.  Maybe my summers are too good.  I don't want to let them go.

The idea of drinking anything pumpkin-flavored, though, still makes me want to gag.

I'm baaaaack!

Hello, dear readers!

I can't believe it's been more than two months since I last posted.  I'm not sure how many of you I even have left.  That was I risk I consciously took when I decided to go on an unannounced hiatus this summer.  I realized, after my last post in July, that writing was slowly moving from my "Want To" list, to my "Have To" list and that was making me really sad. That's when I decided to take a break and spend my summer being with my kids pursuing other interests (see below) and getting involved in all the summer shenanigans we usually partake in.

Two of my new interests:

Stand-up paddleboarding is da' bomb.

I became a Girls on the Run coach which has, pretty much changed my life.

So I hope a few of you are still around and still interested in some of my nonsense. I was going to write "my musings", but using that word made me picture myself typing, wearing an ironic t-shirt and skinny jeans in a hipster pose of self-aware nonchalance.  "Who me? I'm just working on my blog."  Since as a former teacher, and now SAHM, my calendar runs September to August, let's consider this the new year and a new beginning.

School is in.
MM

Idiots, Trucks and Dinos or Why I Hate Reading to My Son

Hello, dear readers.  What do you mean, "where have you been for a month?"  Ignore that calendar!  I'm sorry, I'm sorry.  I have neglected you.  But you really didn't want me writing about nothing except end-of-the-school-year performances, which were so numerous and lengthy I spent as many hours at the school as if gone back to teaching full-time. You certainly didn't want posts about my never-ending anxiety concerning #1's graduation from elementary school, getting a cell phone and her going "into town" alone to get pizza with her pals.  OK, well I will be writing about some of that in the near future.

On a more positive note, summer is in full swing.  My brood and I have already begun living by The Summer Commandments, and that means numerous trips to the library.  Is there anything better than going to the library with your children in the summer - leisurely wandering the stacks with them, reminiscing about books you loved as a kid, or being introduced yourself to the wonderful new books that have been written since you were a child?  I rejoiced when #2 decided to read Harriet the Spy, a story about a plucky, independent little girl with an active imagination who fancies herself the neighborhood secret agent.  My eldest and I both were intrigued by the premise of her choice, Fever 1793, in which the main character is a pre-teen girl struggling to survive in yellow fever-ravaged colonial Philadelphia.  And this is what Little Man chose:

There is no book I hate more than, No, David! by David Shannon.*  The main character, based on the author one is to suppose, is an ill-behaved little boy who spends the entire book being scolded by his mother who, based on her lack of effectiveness, is nothing but a figure head.  And this is when I scream to the heavens, "WHERE ARE ALL THE BOOKS FOR BOYS????"

Having two girls first, in my experience with the characters of modern children's literature, female lead characters are all pretty similar to Olivia of the famous Ian Falconer book series - a spunky female pig who marches to her own drum, but is kept in line by the firm, yet gentle, limits set by her exhausted parents.  Now I'm stuck with David the nose-picking hater of pants with a lame duck of a mother.

In my search for a decent book to read to my son, I have stumbled upon two categories of characters, none of which are fulfilling my needs.  No, David!, is of the "bad boy" category.  In that ill-behaving fraternity are Max of Where the Wild Things Are as well as Alexander of Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day.  Those two books are classics, and I do enjoy reading them to some extent, but why are these boys so angry?  Actually, Alex seems clinically depressed.  I get it, a little rebellion is entertaining to kids, but at least Olivia sits in her room contritely after she tries to make an imitation Jackson Pollack painting in her bedroom.  I want to smack Max in his scowling little face.  And another sucker of a mother in that book.  She caves and gives the little shit his dinner after all without so much as an apology from him.

The other category of characters are not even human or, at least, regular boys.  I call these books the "turn little boys into something else" books.  I swear fully half of the books written for little guys feature either pirates or anthropomorphic vehicles and dinosaurs.  Yes, some level of fantasy is good, even Olivia imagines she is one of Degas' ballerinas, so I can sort of get behind How I Became a Pirate (illustrated, coincidentally, by David Shannon), but again, pirates glorify bad behavior so they can almost be put in the "bad boy" category.  Why can't it be How I Became a Firefighter? Or How I Became a Professional Athlete with No Gambling, Violence or Substance Abuse Problem?

The vehicle and dinosaur books almost don't even count, as humanizing them is generally used as a tool to educate the reader about non-fiction information, such as in the book I Stink!:

The most well known has to be the How Do Dinosaurs series.  Let's be honest, we all thank Jane Yolen for penning those thinly-veiled brain-washing books.  "How does a dinosaur say goodnight when Papa comes in to turn off the light? Does a dinosaur stomp his feet on the floor and shout, 'I want to hear one book more?'" Little Man looks at me like, "Um, yes...Wait, no...No, right?"  With leading question and answers related to eating, school and playtime, skillfully hidden in a book starring your son's favorite prehistoric creatures, you might wind up with a Stepford son after all.

Then there's this marketer's dream:

It's like the children's book version of Alien vs. Predator.  It's crap, but it sells.

The only two human, boy characters I have found I can stand so far are Peter of Ezra Jack Keat's books The Snowy Day, Peters' Chair and Goggles and Harold of Harold and the Purple Crayon.  Both boys are kind souls with adventurous spirits, but both of these books are older than I am, so they lack a certain relevance to my son's life.  Peter is sent to get milk for his mother at age five for Peter's sake!  Harold, judging by his manual dexterity, must be at least five, but is bald like an infant and still wears footy pajamas.

Where is my son's Olivia?????

The reason I get so mad about this discrepancy is I fear it will erode my son's taste in books.  How will I get him interested in Encyclopedia Brown when he cut his reading teeth on David's jackassery?   We are raising a generation of boys who have been fed a literary diet of fast food so why do we expect their tastes to miraculously change once they hit the upper grades? Have you seen the Captain Underpants series?  It gives me a rash.  Maybe the problem is the majority of children's book authors are women and they don't feel qualified to write for little boys.  Or maybe publishers don't think these types of books will sell.  I know I'd buy as many as they'd put out there.

In any case, let me put it out there.  Please, children's authors, PLEASE, can one of you come up with a  male character who is strong, smart, and sensitive?  One who makes no reference to bodily functions or sasses his mother.  One who likes sports and music and gets along with his little sister.  Maybe even follow Falconer's lead and throw in a some artistic and cultural references.

Can someone please write about a kid we actually want our sons to be like?

Thanks.

*I do love some of his other books such as, Duck on a Bike and Too Many Toys, but, man, that David sucks.

Marriage: A Work in Progress

"You make concessions when you're married a long time that you don't believe you'll ever make when you're beginning. You say to yourself when you're young, oh, I wouldn't tolerate this or that or the other thing, you say love is the most important thing in the world and there's only one kind of love and it makes you feel different than you feel the rest of the time, like you're all lit up. But time goes by and you've slept together a thousand nights and smelled like spit up when babies are sick and seen your body droop and get soft. And some nights you say to yourself, it's not enough, I won't put up with another minute. And then the next morning you wake up and the kitchen smells like coffee and the children have their hair all brushed and the birds are eating out of the feeder and you look at your husband and he's not the person you used to think he was but he's your life. The house and the children and so much of what you do is built around him and your life, too, your history. If you take him out it's like cutting his face out of all pictures, there's a big hole and it's ugly. It would ruin everything. It's more than love, it's more important than love."

I came across this quote rereading Anna Quindlen's One True Thing and it seems so apropos today, my fifteenth wedding anniversary.  "Wow!", some of you must be saying, "Her marriage must really be on the rocks for her to reference this quote on her anniversary."  But I feel quite the contrary.  After fifteen years of being married to the same man, I am proud to say I feel this quote summarizes my marriage, and marriage in general, pretty well.

Of course, this passage is about a cheating husband, so let's ignore that part, but if instead you define the "I won't put up with another minute" as the incessant leaving of socks on the floor and dirty dishes in the sink, or insistance on watching The Bachelor, we have all had those moments where you look around and say, "This is not what I signed up for."  How did you go from gazing longingly into each other's eyes, to barely glancing at each other over the dinner table while trying to cajole the products of your love into please eating their broccoli?  From not being able to tear yourselves out of bed to threatening your significant other with ejection from said bed if he farts like that again?  

In between these moments of boredom, annoyance and hard work, are the brighter moments of romance, fun and camaraderie that make it all worth it.  But are those moments enough? I believe they are.  I believe marriage is a work of pointillism.  Up close, it looks horrible and messy and doesn't make any sense, but look at the bigger picture and you see how all these small moments, when viewed as a whole, come together to create a beautiful life.   

Another thing I love about this passage is  Anna Quindlen's honesty, having her character admit "he's not the person you used to think he was, but he's your life".   Who is that person you feel in love with?  Where is he or she now?  You probably aren't married to him or her, but to a person who vaguely reminds you of that person.  After fifteen years of marriage (and twenty of partnership), I can say with complete conviction, I am not the girl H married.  How could I still be after all the highs and lows that life has thrown our way, and not to mention, three children?  

You are a different person now. Certain parts of your personality, left unchecked, have become more dominant as circumstances have dictated.  Some of the same things that drew you to your partner, have morphed and  are probably among the things that drive you craziest.  His single-minded focus for things he is passionate about was fun when that thing was you and, later in life, has made him successful, but it also forces you to occasionally have to pry the Blackberry out of his cramped hands.  And your knack for planning sure came in handy when you were back-packing through Italy, but now drives him to drink when you can't seem to have an un-planned Sunday.  But hopefully through the years, you have grown in complimentary ways.  Like two rocks rubbing together, you change, but, in response, so does your partner, yet you still fit together.

So Happy Anniversary, H.  No, we're not the two kids in the picture anymore (clearly, neither one of us has the same hair color), but I like this us better.  Life has put some bumps in our road for sure, but it's always been OK if you were riding with me.  And you let me drive.  And bring a map.  And pack the snacks.

Trademark optional

Diaromas, mobiles, posters, "A Day in the Life of" reports, paper mache globes...I would like to issue a formal apology to the parents of every child I ever taught.  Now that I am a parent myself, I realize I had no fucking clue what a wretched pain in the ass these projects were I so cavalierly assigned on a regular basis.  With two children in the higher primary grades, I now know how many parent hours were put into these assignments. The trips to the craft store, where I stand in line, impatiently tapping my foot, behind people with waaaay too much time on their hands judging by the amount of scrapbooking, bedazzling and decoupage supplies in their child-free carts, all so I can buy popsicle sticks to glue into a replica of the Jamestown settlement with a recalcitrant child long into the night.  Karma is a bitch.  It was during such a project though, that I recently learned something - other than never go to Michaels later than ten in the morning or on Senior Tuesday.

#1 came home with a project titled "My Family Flag".  Before I even finished reading the assignment  I was making a shopping list in my head, wondering, "Do I still have that felt from the Native American headdress project?"  Before we could even begin cutting and hot gluing (you are not officially a mother of school-aged children until you own a hot glue gun and have several sizes of google-y eyes in your house at all times), she had to come up with her concept.  This particular project was for a Social Studies unit about countries, and in a pretty interesting twist, the teacher was having each child treat their families as if they were countries themselves.  On her flag, #1 had to have our family motto, and representations of our national pastimes and industries - basically, what we do as a family.

My eldest had done some brainstorming at school (love when they are given class time to work!), and had a pretty decent list of things we do - going to the beach, reading, riding bikes, cooking etc.  So now we had to tackle the motto.  As I steeled myself for what was sure to be a long discussion, where I tried not to feed her answers, my daughter came up with some great ideas.  It seems over the past ten years, I had been saying certain things over and over again - creating mottos without intending to. When I thought about it, I realized every family needs, if not a motto, then a few credos by which they live - and if we really want our children to absorb them they need to be said out loud and often.

We think the lessons we are trying to teach our kids come across loud and clear through our actions, but their interpretations of what we are doing may not be the lesson we are trying to teach.  You may think you are forging strong sibling bonds, forcing your children to compromise when playing with each other, but they might just be thinking "How do I get my own way this time?" When you are clear about the message you are trying to send, there can be no mixed signals, and when heard enough times (roughly a thousand for the average eight year-old) it will eventually become rote.


H and I stumbled upon this accidentally in our parenting and it has proven quite useful.  For example, I frown upon my children using the term "best friend", I feel it sets everyone up for heartbreak and disappointment at some point.  Instead, when it comes up I say, "Yes, So-and-so is your very, very good friend, but your siblings are your best friends."  Sure, maybe #1 can't imagine Little Man as her top confidante as he lays on the floor banging Hot Wheels cars into his forehead, but in fifteen years that will change.  And she will be open to that by drilling it into her that he and#2 are the two people, other than her parents, who she can trust most in this world.


Taking it back a step further, this flag project brought to light that, as parents, we need to distinctly specify the values upon which we will raise our families.  These vague, amorphous ideas of love and respect are all well and good, but a concise phrase to bring it into focus allows you to make parenting decisions by asking yourself if your choices are meeting these goals.  These phrases can also be succinct reminders of longer discussions you have about these values.  All of the ideas #1 had for her motto were based around the central principal H and I repeat again and again to our kids - "Family comes first".  It handily covers who to side with when your friend and your sibling are in a disagreement, or why, no, you can't invite a friend along on our family outing. H and I can also use this slogan as a litmus test for decision we ourselves our making.  Have we been too busy?  Have we been spending enough time with the kids, and interacting with them in a way that is meaningful?  We have tried to teach our kids that we are a strong unit and what matters most is caring for and enjoying that unity.  I guess we had a motto and never knew it.

In the end, #1 decided upon "Better Together", which I thought was a beautiful interpretation of our motto.  Although, she later told me she thought of it when the Jack Johnson station was on Pandora.  I will choose to ignore that and, based on the discussions we had, claim this as a parenting victory.  Precious are moments when you see your parenting efforts come to fruition and  I will not have this one stolen from me by a guy who plays the ukulele.

Besides, I had already envisioned Mean Mommy Family t-shirts being printed up and everything.  Now we just need a logo....

That time of the month....

I'm tired, bloated, and crampy.   I have a (more than usual) hair-trigger temper, alternating with periods of wanting to sob, and I am doing everything in my power to not eat the stale Easter candy lingering in the kids' baskets I have yet to clean out and put away.  Yes, dear readers, I have a wicked case of PMS.

"PMS?", you ask incredulously?  "What are you, a Cathy comic?"

Yes, PMS.  I know, I know, as a modern, educated woman, I should be debunking this myth that women become unstable for a week each month, which fully justifies the corporate glass ceiling and why we should never have a woman President.  And yet....there it is.

In my twenties I jeered at Midol ads and considered PMS to be a product of the anti-feminist propaganda machine.  Coincidentally, I was also on the pill at the time, which prevents you from experiencing any of the nasty side effects of having to ride Th Great Hormone Cyclone each month.  Now that I am Laird Hamilton, having spent a decade surfing the tides of estrogen in my body each month, I think those commercials are not graphic enough.  There needs to be footage of a woman clutching a chocolate donut, screaming at her kids to "PUT YOUR SHOES ON!!!!" until a vein pops out on her forehead, then the same woman sitting at the kitchen table, crying, after her children have left for school.  And I am not the only one who feels this way.  We have all shared tales of PMS-induced, low-level insanity.  We all want to deny it, but then the only other explanation would be that we really are insane.  I'll blame it on the hormones, thank you.  PMS is like racism.  Nobody talks about it openly in mixed company, but we know it exists.

Since the women's movement first began, one theory on gaining equality was to deny any differences between men and women.  I think this is ludicrous.  It shows how strong women are that we do all we do even when we feel like crap.  I have a repeated fantasy where H has to experience one menstrual cycle and still function in his daily life.  This is second only to my desire for him to experience just one transitional labor contraction and poop on a table in front of people.  But I digress.  I think it is a testament to womankind that even when we feel like we could justifiably kill everyone around us, we hold it together.  Sure, we may not be Susie Sunshine about it, but we get it done.  Susie Sunshine brings up another important point.   Maybe women are expected to be too nice all the damn time.  Maybe PMS gives us the excuse to not give a shit and be a little cranky.  See: Men every day.

Even though we soldier on through this discomfort, I think Mother Nature, being a woman, knew that women would work themselves to death, and was trying to engineer a sort of "pause" button.  Our cycles follow the moon, which, even as a celestial being, knows to take a breather once a month and disappear.  No, this doesn't mean we can't be CEO because we'd be holed up wearing bunny slippers watching Lifetime movies every twenty-eight days, it just means that women, who are typically more critical of themselves (see: fat men in Speedos), are given a physical cue to take it down a notch and be kinder to ourselves.  See again: men are every day.

So how do we deal with this?  And by "we" I don't just mean women, I mean our partners as well.  Because the men in our lives are as affected by our behavior as we are.  But if our husbands dare ask if we are having our "ladies days", they risk being beheaded by the sheer force of our rage.  "PMS" is like the N-word for women.  We can say it all we want, but you can't.  I think the fear is, once we admit it's an issue, we are giving men permission to treat us like dim-witted slaves to our ovaries.  I think we should all approach it like we would having a cold.  When you have one, it's OK to admit it and you're allowed to be a little cranky.  No condescending judgement.

I myself am altering my orignal plan today to sand and paint the bathroom trim.  It will do me good to take a break - and I would've spent the whole project muttering myself into a rage over somebody, who shall remain nameless*, taking showers long enough to already start peeling the year-old paint.  H has also been told there will likely be takeout for dinner.  Maybe instead of my usual running around, I'll put up my feet and watch some bad TV while eating chocolate.

"AACK!!!!"

*H!  Wtf, man?  I have one hundred times the hair to wash and square inches of skin to shave, yet I shower in half the time you do.  I know the lack of functioning lock means you're not jerking off.  What exactly are you doing in there?

A Mother's Bill of Rights

I was blowing my hair out the other morning - YES! On a weekday! - when I thought to myself, "Why  did it take me ten years to realize I could take the time to do this once in a while?"  Why had I spent so many years shoving my hair under a Yankee hat?  And to go even further, why did I feel guilty about sitting down and reading a book for half an hour or making myself a lunch that didn't consist of grilled cheese crust and leftover apple slices?  I realized that for the last decade I had been living like a second class citizen in this country that is my own home.

To benefit those of you forming your own domestic principalities, I have put together a list of those things, by your mere existence as the head of your family, that you are entitled to.  Demanding them all may be too much for you right now, but eventually attaining them all should be the norm for all stay-at-home parents.

Article I

The right to a shower every twenty-four hours.  You might be too exhausted to actually haul yourself out of bed, remove your clothing and step under running water.  Perhaps you prefer to sleep an extra twenty minutes and you don't think you smell that bad, but the right to wash off your thighs the applesauce that has seeped through your yoga pants, or been gently massaged through your hair by chubby baby fingers, is inalienable.  Exercising it, optional.

Article II

The right to wear (at least) one thing each day that makes you feel any of the following: cute, sexy, attractive, young, hip, strong, sassy or put-together.   As Elizabeth Berg wrote, "She wore a sweatshirt and jeans and lovely pearl studs in her ears -- dressing up a bit of herself so she wouldn't forget how, no doubt. You will see this in mothers of small children: they dress up from the neck up. Everything else is in danger of peanut butter."  Don't endanger your best duds, but give yourself five minutes to throw on some lipstick, or that t-shirt from college that makes you laugh.  It doesn't matter how it makes you look, it matters how it makes you feel - like something other than a peanut butter sandwich-making, Lego-building, carpool-driving autobot.

Article III

The right to exercise for thirty minutes a day.  Many women I know feel too guilty taking time to squeeze fitness into an already packed day.  Guess what?  Doing so will actually make you a better mother.  As Phil Dunphy puts it "She has to run everyday or she goes crazy.  She's like a border collie."  Consider getting a little movement to be the adult version of "shaking your sillies out".  I find it much easier to deal with a bowl of cereal being spilt on the floor, splattering milk everywhere, and Little Man walking through it, obliviously tracking wet Cheerios through the house, when I have a nice shot of endorphins running through my system.  It's like your body's homemade wine - it takes the edge off of things.  So plop your kids on the couch with your ipad so you can do a workout tape.  Raising children is a physical challenge, so shouldn't you be training?

Article IV

The right to eat one meal a day sitting down, preferably, with utensils.  I think one meal of three is a realistic goal.  I laugh at magazines telling me I should be sitting down and savoring my food at each and every meal.  While I'm not stuffing a McRib down my throat in the van, I am very often eating a veggie wrap while I help with homework or do a jigsaw puzzle.  I draw the line at dinner though.  Requests during our evening meal are met with, "When I'm done eating", as I am usually dining sans husband, but when he is home, he runs all interference so I can eat food that hasn't gone stone cold.  Choose whichever meal is easiest for you to get some peace.  If your kids nap, guess what?  That's your lunch hour.  Punch out and eat.

Article V

The right to thirty minutes of leisure time a day.  Do you have half of The Bachelor finale you still haven't watched since during last night's viewing your husband started yelling about his "testicles actually shrinking back up into his body", or some such nonsense?  Do you have a book you've been dying to read, but can't make any dent in during the nine minutes you crack it open before bed each night, only to fall asleep with it on your face?  Well here's your permission to enjoy these pastimes freely.  I'll let you in on a little secret.  At work in an office, most people put in a solid four to five hours of labor, tops.  There is plenty of internet surfing, online shopping, office gossip and coffee breaks to break up the day.  And let's not even talk about commute time.  It's no wonder H got through four season of Mad Men in less than a month.  Your day is roughly twelve hours long, if not longer.  One episode of Hoarders is only forty minutes on the DVR, go for it.

Article VI

The right to have an uninterrupted conversation.  We have all had a friend over, or been on the phone, only to have our chat repeatedly brought to a halt with, "Watch me roll my tongue!", "Where are my fairy wings?", or "Can you untie this knot, please?" All of these attempted interjections can be handily turned  away with a furrowed brow and a pursed lip.  My children call it my "beaver face".  They know, unless they are bleeding, or something is on fire, they need to wait.  I do not believe children should be seen and not heard, but I firmly believe they do not always need to be heard the second their impulse-driven brains demand it.  Mommy needs to dissect the ending of the last Jodi Picoult novel with her pal while you play on the swings.  Cram it for two minutes.  
Go practice in the mirror until you find a suitable facial expression.

Article VII

The right to have the weekend feel different from the work week.  Do ask your significant other to go to the office on Saturday?  No, so why should all forty-eight hours of the weekend feel like the rest of the week for you?  Along with general splitting of childcare and household work, ask your other to pick up a chore you are just sick and tired of, say, preparing lunch or unloading the dishwasher.  I even went as far to declare "I don't do shit on weekends", relegating H to diaper duty (or doody).  Just do something, anything to make it feel not like Tuesday every damn day.  

Article VIII

The right to six hours of sleep.  OK, I realize for some of you that seems an unattainable dream, like getting your old boobs back, but at some point, the baby will stop nursing or the stomach bug will pass. At that point, you have the right to kick any unwanted offspring out of your bed.  There is a reason they use sleep-deprivation as a method of torture - you will lose your ever-loving mind without rest.  Do not feel guilty about it. Limiting the time they keep you awake limits the time you spend screaming the next day.  Simple cause and effect.

So let this be the dawn of a new day in your land!  Stand up for your rights!  A well-rested, well-fed, well-reality TV'd ruler makes for a happy kingdom.

Treat yourself like the queen you are.