Mystery: Explained

Jack: I need to change my sheets. They're covered in hair. And boogers!

Me: It's not my fault you're gross. You shouldn't wipe your nose on your sheets.

Jack: It's just what boys do, Mom. It's not you.

Photo Update: This is exactly what it's like to have an Aries child.

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Burning Down The House

Yesterday morning I woke up and realized I'd been dreaming about Joaquin Phoenix.

I don't know how it happened, as Joaquin Phoenix is usually very far from my mind. Sure, he's attractive enough, and he may even be a talented actor (that thumbs-down in Gladiator was riveting), but usually when I see him I just think "meh."

I suspect he was on my mind because of Harry Potter, which was on TV just before I went to bed. (Stay with me, I promise this will make sense.) See, Dumbledore has a Phoenix named Fawkes. Harry visits Dumbledore in his office and sees Fawkes, looking ill on a perch. Very ill. It turns out it's a burning day--and Harry gets to see Fawkes burst into flame and then reemerge from the ashes, a shiny Phoenix hatchling. You can tell by the way Harry and Dumbledore look at the bird that it's the most adorable death and rebirth ever.

What I'm saying is that Phoenix was already on my mind. Not Joaquin, specifically. That was some kind of nocturnal, circular, cerebral twist. High five, brain! You're weird.

In my dream, I was sitting somewhere, maybe a bench, maybe a chair, maybe the low branch of a tree (details are fuzzy) and there was Joaquin. And I thought, "THERE he is!" As if I'd been looking for him for hours, for days, or possibly my entire life. I was so relieved to find him.

I looked at him, took him in, his dark hair, his scarred upper lip and his general air of savoir faire. And I thought, "Wouldn't it be weird if his first name was Phoenix, too? Phoenix Phoenix. Poof! He's on fire!"

I'm a wit even in my dreams.

So, there I was, with Joaquin Phoenix and for some reason he wanted to date me. I don't know what he said, and it probably doesn't matter anyway, because I was suddenly trying really hard to talk him out of it. Not passionately, exactly--more philosophically. It was like those debates in 7th-grade American History.

"Joaquin," I said, "You don't want to date me."

"I have three kids. You don't want three kids."

"I don't clean the bathroom often enough."

"Joaquin, I can't knit socks. Also, I do not support keeping snakes as pets."

"I don't like fennel."

"I have stretch marks."

I listed the cons, in nonsensical and self-flagellating order. I guess Joaquin was arguing the pros, but we'll never know. I woke up before he decided if he really wanted to date me.

Poof!

The Elephant In The Room

I live with three boys and one man. This means that not only is the toilet seat never left down--I would never even think to ask them to do it. I'm just happy when they manage to not pee on the floor (I would just like to point out that my husband is not the problem here, in case you were wondering).  Penises are a daily topic of conversation: their length, their stretchiness, their sudden tendency to stand at attention in the bathtub. We talk about washing it, we talk about covering it, and we talk about it when it's sore, or itchy or cold.

My husband handles all this with aplomb. He can say "penis" with a straight face. For this I am grateful, because it's a talent I do not possess. The word "penis" makes me giggle, along with all the slang terms used in its place: boner, dick, ding-dong, weiner, whang, wanker, chubby, and my new favorite (thanks Urban Dictionary), Russell the Love Muscle.

As you might imagine, NOT having a penis has led to many embarrassing conversations. Like this one:

Jack: You don't have a penis?! But how do you pee?!

Me: Uh ...

Or this one:

Me: Where are my pants?

Jack: You have hair down there?! (looking at my underwear)

Me: Maybe you should stop coming in when I'm getting dressed!

Or:

Skylar: I like your boobs, Mom!

Me: Uh ... thanks?

Or (my favorite):

Finn: You're bleeding. I saw blood on the toilet paper!

Me: Why can't I be alone?!

I know, I know, I KNOW. I'm supposed to be cool and clinical and answer these questions with all the emotion of an android. I'm supposed to explain the mysteries of the female body, including my lack of penis, the unexplained monthly bleeding and why I have to pee sitting down. But I can't. Because the elephant in the room is me. Or rather, my vagina. It's mine, I like it fine, it's been working for me all these years--but I don't want to talk about it. Really all I want is to go to the bathroom alone, where I can wipe in peace, blood or no blood.

I'm sort of dreading the "birds and the bees" lecture that is at some point forthcoming. Luckily, I have been blessed with mostly oblivious children who have at no point (so far) asked me where babies come from, despite my being visibly pregnant in front of at least two of them. I can't even comfortably watch nature shows with the kids, because ohmygod what if those lions decide to get it on? And ohmygod that squid just released a sperm sac and holy hell that cow is giving birth and look away kids! Look away! Your mother is twelve.

I really don't know why I can't just say "uterus" and "vulva" in front of the kids, but for some reason I'd rather say "fuck shit dammit piss knockers bollocks dick asshat." Yes, I'm aware I have issues. No, I'm not in therapy.

Thank god for my husband.

Exciting, Exhausting, Exceptional: Your Aries Child

Your Aries child is inquisitive. He has lots of questions. He also has lots of answers, and he doesn't care if you didn't ask. From the moment your Aries child realizes his mouth is for talking, he will never stop using it for that purpose. You will be subjected to a constant stream-of-conciousness narrative that makes William Faulkner look like a hack. At breakfast, at lunch, at dinner, at snacktime, naptime or bedtime, there will be talking. For fifty miles or fifteen, however far you're driving, your Aries child will endeavour to fill the silence with talking.

Your Aries child is energetic. He will crawl sooner, walk sooner and run sooner than any other baby his age, and he will not believe in sitting down, not even to eat or use the bathroom. In fact, he will hate sitting so much that he will somehow manage to do it in a manner that makes it look as if he's coming and going all at once.  When everyone else's baby is calmly sitting and playing wth toys at the mother's group, your Aries child will crawl out the door over and over. When he gets tired of crawling out the door, he will switch to taking toys from other babies. You will dress him in overalls as much as possible, because the shoulder straps will allow you the best chance of catching him before he gets too far.

Your Aries child is impatient. He wants everything now, right now, this very minute, and yesterday would have been better.  Every major holiday will have him acting like a Border Collie on speed, but Christmas will be the worst. He will wake up on Christmas Eve and hit the ceiling, which is where he will remain, buzzing, all day. He will finally fall asleep, late, and then he will wake early on Christmas morning. And by early, I mean just after midnight. And then at 1. And again at 2. Has Santa come now? Now? How about now? He will be up for the day at 5 am, at which time he will wake his brothers. You will have opened presents and had breakfast by 6:30 am, which will lead you to consider enlisting your Aries child in the Army.

Your Aries child is angry. He will go off like a road flare at the smallest provocation. As a toddler, this rage will manifest as the Baby Demon Goat of Doom, who will get a running start to headbutt you in the pelvis. You will get so good at predicting the headbutting that you will just throw a hand out to catch him before he makes contact. He will also bite, scream, flail, punch, throw objects, wet himself in time out, and generally go out of his way to improve his Linda-Blair-in-The-Exorcist impression. Don't bother telling him those things are not allowed, he won't care. He's MAKING A POINT and as far as he's concerned you can suck it. Especially if you're his mother. Thankfully, your Aries child will not still be acting like a possessed Catholic schoolgirl when he's eight. Instead, he will morph into a smart-ass-know-it-all tween--and you will consider it an improvement. At least talking back isn't a contact sport.

Your Aries child has zero impulse control. His hands are moving before the thought is fully formed, whether or not danger is involved. He will think of riding his bike with his eye closed as an experiment. He will put everything together without instructions, and science experiments will be done hastily with as much mess as possible. When he's a toddler, you will have to strip him naked and put him on the back porch when he paints, because there's nothing you can do to stop him from painting his body. It's best not to argue with your Aries child, unless you want to wrestle.

You will start to think of your life as one long never-ending episode of "Good Idea, Bad Idea." You will give instructions and advice: your Aries child will ignore you. He wants to learn it the hard way. And hey, the hard way works--it is how he learned that slamming one's head into ceramic tile is really painful and not a great way to show one's mother how angry you are.

Your Aries child will always have A Better Idea. He knows everything--and what he doesn't know? He already knows. Your ideas are Lame, you might as well keep them to yourself.

Your Aries child is unfailingly polite--to strangers. And at school. Everyone he meets will think he is the most charming, lovely boy who ever walked the face of the Earth. Don't hold your breath, because he will not act this way at home. At home he will stomp his feet and roll his eyes and sigh heavily because GOD YOU PEOPLE ARE SO ANNOYING. He will eat his food without chewing or using his fork, and he will make sure to wipe his face on his shirt. His three-year-old brother will have better table manners. Monkeys have better table manners.

Your Aries child is charismatic. When he gets excited about something, he will talk about it until he's blue in the face, but he will be so enthusiastic that before you know it you're listening to him. And dammit if you aren't a little excited, too. Except when he's talking about Pokemon, which he usually is.

Your Aries child is an independent, surprising fireball of a boy. You weren't expecting him, but it doesn't matter. He arrived with his own set of plans, and you can either get on board or get the hell outta the way. Your only function is to feed him, clothe him and make sure he doesn't kill himself doing something stupid before he's old enough to be considered an adult. It's a full-time job.

Another Idea For Another Time

Embarassing Conversations

Your Pisces Child: The Unicorn in Your Midst

Your Pisces child is funny, imaginative, intuitive and nearly too beautiful to be real. Like a unicorn, you suspect he's there--but he's just so damn shiny that you can't be sure. He's tall and skinny, a string bean of a little boy with ridiculously curly hair that cannot be overlooked. His jokes and expressions are perfectly timed.

His outfit is usually a little unconventional, and could be anything from a Spiderman costume to leg warmers and underwear. He is almost never "Skylar," and will insist that you call him "Venom," "Hulk" or sometimes "Baby Lemur." He is your baby, your littlest boy, your very last one: you cherish him for it. He is so beautiful, so perfect, that you worry sometimes that you will lose him somehow. How did you get so lucky?

Even though he is three-and-a-half years old (years that have raced by, so quickly, too quickly, how can you lose count so close to the beginning?), he still feels like an extension of your own body in a way that only your own babies ever have. Being last, you carry him more than you did the others, because soon there will be no one who needs carrying.  He still snuggles into the curve of your belly at storytime, and he still climbs into your bed and only settles when his hand is resting on your face. The others are too big for this.

He is wise beyond his years, and he knows you almost better than your husband. His moods shift with yours, but in a complementary way: you are two Pisces sharing the stream, and you understand each other. He is charming, precocious, and surprising.

He is also snuggly, adorable and bipolar. His moods will shift faster than a greased pig being chased by a determined 4H-er. He will arrive at the playground, fresh-faced and happy, ready to swing or slide or climb. Then the winds will change, his older brother will run off to play with somone else, or he will trip over his shoelace and land on his elbow. He will run back to you at top speed, little face crumpled and tear-stained, and he will refuse to be comforted.

"NO ONE WILL PLAY WITH ME!" he will screech, or "I THINK I BROKE MY ARM!" As far as he's concerned, his version is the truth. No amount of comforting, cajoling, wheedling, teasing or threatening will change his little mind. His brother left, his arm is broken, he is alone, he will be alone forever and ever and ever and he'd like to be alone with his pain now, thank you very much. Most Pisces are also closet Emo Kids.

Your Pisces child does not know the difference between reality and fantasy. God help you if you forget that he is pretending to be a lemur and refer to him as a panda instead. How could you possibly not know the difference, you moron? Pretending is serious business because it is not pretending. This imagination of his will be the cause of much drama over the years. He will ask to hear stories about mummies and zombies and vampires and then become hysterical at bedtime--they weren't real in the daylight, but NOW IT'S DARK and he will probably die of a vampire bite. The only sure way to survive is to sleep with you in your big bed. And by with you, he means on you. And he promises he will be so so quiet.

Your Pisces child will remind you so much of yourself that sometimes you'll swear you're looking in a mirror. You watch him play for hours by himself, needing no one to tell him which twists the story will take. He soaks up words and never forgets them, often using them appropriately and unexpectedly many months later. He tells fantastical tales of fighting off ninjas and pirates and living in the forest. He will speak of his "Army days" as if they were only yesterday, and, with a straight face, ask his grandfather about his time in the Civil War. Your Pisces child will just accept that everyone came from somewhere, most likely a previous life as someone else.

"I came from heaven," he will say. "I'm a new person."

You will suspect he's right about this.

Status Updates: I'll Tell You What I Want You To Know

If you know me, you know that I like to make food. Usually baked goods, but not always. On the days I go crazy in the kitchen, my Facebook status updates may lead you to believe I am Emeril Lagasse or Alton Brown. At the very least, you may suspect me of secretly competing in some contest sponsored by The Food Network: a couple of months ago, I made a lemon meringue pie without cracking open a box of lemon pudding. Last week, I made Oreos from scratch just to say I did it. This morning, I made pumpkin bread.

I also make homemade bread, black bean soup, applesauce, pies of all flavors (chess pie, I love you), dump cakes, cobblers, tortillas, scratch meatballs, cinnamon rolls, scones, egg noodles, and fish tacos. And those are just recipes I've mastered. As it happens, I have an entire list of foods I would love to learn how to make: empanadas, paella, arroz con pollo, gyoza and the ever-elusive perfect pie crust. You know the one, just like grandma used to make. (Incidentally, I recently discovered the secret to this is leaf lard, which I am now on a quest to purchase. Wait. What was I talking about?) Some of this crazy cooking is born of a desire to eat healthier, consciously and more like humans are meant to: whole foods, raised somewhere resembling a cottage farm, without corn syrup. Some of it because at some point I realized that all food comes from somewhere--not just out of boxes and bags in the freezer section (mmm, college food). And some of it is just showing off.

That's right, I said it. I am a show-off. I live for the challenge. I am over-educated and under-employed. If I don't invent things to do, then I find myself sitting on the couch, looking at the laundry and remembering Sisyphus. Surely hell is better than purgatory, if purgatory means washing the same underwear every week for the rest of my life. If Dante Alighieri were here, you better believe we'd talk about it.

The natural result of all this cooking and posting to Facebook, whatever the occasion--celebrating my pie or showing off the pants I sewed for one of the boys or yet another photo of my kids doing something funny--is that I appear to be made of gold. I am gold and everything I touch becomes golden. I am made of perfection. Right?

Excuse me while I go laugh until I cry.

Me? Perfect? Oh, you guys. I am as far from perfect as Pluto is from the sun--and probably farther. It's all smoke and mirrors, FOR REAL. So here it is, a gift: my imperfections, as I see them. Buckle up, because we're gonna be here a while.

I am impatient: I cannot wait for anything, ever. I was the worst pregnant woman in the world because OMG NINE MONTHS. It takes NINE MONTHS to grow a baby and think of the time we're WASTING! I hate lines, I hate traffic, I hate stupid questions and obnoxious children. Today at the fabric store I nearly died of apoplexy, brought on by the extreme slowness with which the cashier was ringing up my items. She counted the spools of thread three times, she remarked on the number I was purchasing, she counted them one more time, she remarked on the weather, counted again, looked at the clock, mentioned she was actually off duty, and then asked me to bag my items. Quietly seething, I started sliding things into the plastic bag she handed me, while she keyed in everything individually, tick tick tick on the computer keyboard. I found myself imagining who could do this faster: me, Skylar, chimps with typewriters, molasses, a rock.

I cry when I'm angry: this has always pissed me off. I want my rage to be cold, calculating, controlled. I want to say witty, relevant things through clenched teeth. I want to be utterly collected. I want to be Jack Nicholson in A Few Good Men. "YOU CAN'T HANDLE THE TRUTH!" I want to scream, and I want people to quiver because I'm right. That is so not how it goes down. I get mad, I cry, I get madder because now I'm incoherent, and then I leave the room. Mission: aborted.

I am terrible at math: go ahead, ask me a question. I will either need scratch paper, a calculator or a Calculus-English dictionary, depending on what you want to know. It's very likely that I will not be able to help you, just as I was unable to help the special education kids I used to teach. Related: I am terrible at saving money.

I love stupid movies: the dumber, the better. If it has Jim Carrey, Will Farrell or was produced and directed by Mel Brooks: I AM SO IN.

I do not like to talk about my feelings: I am afraid you will judge me. I may love you more than I love myself, but good luck getting me to say it to your face. Instead, I will email you or bake you cookies or unnecessarily inconvenience myself to make things easier for you. I will hide behind a joke or a sarcastic comment. I am also an awkward hugger.

I am a terrible English snob: if you write something badly, I will secretly think you're stupid. Unless I know you and love you, in which case I will overlook it. (To everyone on my Facebook friends list: it's all good. I don't mean you.) You also get a free pass if English is not your first language.



I do not like leftovers: period, end of story, Charlie is on his own to eat them all. Unless it's leftover cookies.

I like to pick fights: when I am cranky or hormonal, I sort of relish a good argument. I think it cleanses the air, and if it doesn't do that, then at least everyone else is as miserable as me so we're even. See above: I was an awful pregnant woman.

I always want everything my way: I think this comes from being the oldest child, or maybe it's just that my ideas really are better than everyone else's. That's probably it.

I cannot take noise: Charlie does this thing with his toenails that makes a dreadful tick-ing noise, and it makes my skin crawl. The wet noise of a dog licking its parts makes me want to punch myself in the face. Jack does this humming under his breath thing that makes me feel as if I am going to implode. My dislike of noise also means I hate crowds and concerts and sometimes my children.

I eat too much sugar: yeah, I do.

I freaking love GLEE: I don't care if you don't. I LOVE IT. And I will brook no unkind words spoken about my show. If you don't like Glee, well, you can suck it.

I don't floss as often as I should. I can't match my clothes and I don't care. I hate cleaning. I hate wiping butts. I hate whining and small, yappy dogs (except Wolfgang, he was the exception to that rule) and sometimes I will pretend not to see cat puke so I don't have to clean it up. Sometimes I want to give my kids away. Sometimes I wish I was someone else, doing something else, anywhere else.

I am simply telling you what I want you to know.

In Which I Give Ben Franklin A Piece of My Mind

Dear Benjamin Franklin,

Hold it, Ben, just hold it RIGHT THERE. Yes, I know you didn't propose daylight savings time (it was actually proposed in 1895 by a man from New Zealand named George Vernon Hudson, the jerk--but just put a pin in that, I'll get to him in a minute.) Don't think for a minute that you are off the hook. YOU started this nonsense. I give you exhibit A:  "Early to bed, early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise." No, you didn't write that, but you did publish it in your almanac. You gave people ideas. My children were up before the sun this morning, shouting, scattering toys and eating huge bowls of Count Chocula and Frankenberry cereal. Maybe you think this is a good thing, and an excellent use of their time, and maybe you're right--but I hate you all the same.

Exhibit B: Your anonymously published 1784 letter suggesting that Parisians save on candles by getting up EARLIER. "That was satire," you say--but we all know that satire is truth wrapped in comedy. You meant it when you "jokingly" suggested that shutters be taxed, candles rationed, and people awakened by cannons. What kind of masochist are you, Ben?  Inventions can be invented after 10 am, you know. There is no good reason to get up before then, unless you're in the Army. My children? NOT IN THE ARMY.

And your accomplice, that Kiwi entomologist Mr. Hudson? (Shhhhhh! I know you were dead long before he was born. That's not the point.) Mr. Hudson took your adage to heart; he was early to bed, early to rise, and so probably also healthy, wealthy and wise. Because he worked a shift job during the day, he came to love those after-work daylight hours. In fact, he loved them so much that he wrote a paper about them, proposing that we all set our clocks ahead two hours so we can more properly enjoy them. One thing led to another and blammo!--daylight savings time was born. In that respect, 1895 was not a good year for the mothers of small children.

Did you have any children, Mr. Franklin? Did your entire day revolve around the delicate sleep/awake schedule that they run on? Have you ever had to explain to a three-year-old that it's bedtime, even though it's still light outside? Have you ever served dinner at 4:30 pm, just because your kids think it's really 5:30 pm? Have you ever covered a window with tinfoil to prevent any and all natural light from entering a room at dawn? No? Well, bully for you!

This afternoon I took the kids to the playground, where they played happily for about twenty minutes. (Well, sorta. The middle child had a tantrum first because his friend was not there and exhaustion makes stomping off to sulk seem like a good way to handle disappointment.) At the end of that twenty minutes, a switch flipped inside the youngest child (and you better believe the switch from stable to extremely unstable take about .2 nanoseconds) and he became hysterical. He surveyed the playground, noticed that there were at least six kids all doing something he wasn't doing, and then hit the mulch. Face first. As if he'd fainted or died.

"Nobody wants to play with me!" he shrieked, writhing around in the dirt as if his pants were on fire.

"Have you asked anyone to play with you?" I said.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

"Why don't you ask Marisol and Francesca? They're your friends," I replied.

"NOT ANYMORE! I WON'T TALK TO THEM!" More shrieking. And then he grabbed his throat and made a horrible retching noise. "I'M GOING TO THROW UP!" he threatened.

I walked away. I ignored him. I returned and tried to comfort him. He snarled at me. I walked away again. He begged me to come back. I offered to take him home. He said he wasn't ready to go. I pointed out that some of the other kids were on the swings. He snarled some more. I walked away again. He rolled around, retching and shrieking and clutching his throat. I offered to take him home again, but he refused to go without his brothers. "I will DIE without them!" he countered. "I WILL DIE!" I considered calling a priest. But what would I say? "Father, please meet me at the playground. My kid is possessed--he has a bad case of the Daylight Savings Times." 

I finally got him home, where I parked him at the dinner table with a bowl of chicken soup. He picked at it, despite the fact that he was ravenous.

"Are these mushrooms?!" he asked incredulously. Meanwhile, the middle child came unglued when his spoon wouldn't hold all the noodles in the bowl without them slipping off. It was sadly comical to watch him try to get a spoonful and then say "Uhhhhhhhhhhh!" in a sort of drawn-out whine, while the little one cried about the mushrooms. The chorus of whimpering and tears was wondrous to behold, truly.

They were dropping like flies.

And when we finally finished dinner and clean up and baths and homework--it was only 6:30 pm. Too damn early to put them to bed, if I don't want them up at 5 am. I don't care what you think, Ben Franklin, no child needs to be up at 5 am to do anything. There are no cows to milk, no inventions to tinker with, no important documents to write. Not for little kids, anyway.

Thanks a pant load,

Marcy

Ideas For Another Time

1. A Bad Case of the Daylight Savings Times

2. Raising A Mad Scientist

3. Your Aries Child: Exciting and Exhausting

4. Your Pisces Child: The Unicorn In Your Midst

5. The Middle Child Blues

Locking Horns: Your Taurus Child And You

Your Taurus child is sweet, funny, lovable, kind, generous and affectionate. In fact, he wants to kiss you all the time. When he's not kissing you, he's holding your hand or wrapping himself around your body, cephalopod-style (just arms and a head, very sticky). He's athletic and solidly built, and he loves to eat. And he'll eat anything--but he especially loves sweets.

Your Taurus child is usually a little disheveled, sporting mismatched clothes and a smear of dirt just across the bridge of his nose. He has dirt and play-doh under his fingernails, from days spent sculpting and digging for playground treasure. He often trips over his own feet while walking, only to display a shocking amount of grace when climbing to the top of the monkey bars or riding his Razor scooter.

That's the good.

Your Taurus child is also whiny, stubborn and absurdly concerned with fairness and justice. His little lizard brain works over time to calculate who got what, when they got it, and how many they received. "It's not faaaaaiiiiirrrr!" he will scream, whine, whimper or state. He will say this so often and with such conviction that you will threaten to have it engraved on his tombstone.

He does things so slowly that sometimes you suspect he's actually going backward.

He is quietly rebellious. Unlike his older Aries brother, your Taurus child will not unexpectedly explode like Vesuvius. Instead, he will smolder for a good long while before bursting into a hearty inferno--usually over his homework.

"It's time to do your homework!" you say.

"I don't WANT to," he replies. "It's BOR-ing."

"The sooner you start, the sooner you'll be finished," you tell him. Then you head for the kitchen to start dinner, mistakenly assuming that your son will get right on it.

You novice.

He does not "get right on it." Instead, he starts to draw pictures. After he draws for a while, he asks for a snack.

"Have you finished your homework?" you ask, thinking (novice!) that he must be close to halfway done by now. After all, it was just some spelling words and subtraction, all things he knows how to do.

"No." Under the right circumstances, the look that accompanies this particular "no" would be scathing. Of course, you being YOU means that YOU are impervious to this level of scorn--after all, your approval ratings among your pint-sized constituents are generally low. You are a Buzz Kill.

Just like that, your Taurus child will dig in his heels ... and it's on. World War Three has just broken out in your dining room while you were peacefully minding your own business. Forget dinner--your Taurus child will now try to find out what you're made of.

He will moan and whine and squirm, and when that fails to move you, he will try to convince you he's still hungry. Hungry people can't concentrate! Then he will burst into tears and pretend he doesn't know the answer to six minus five. He will try various methods of asking the same question, just to see if you'll give him the answer. Then he will spend fifteen minutes sharpening his pencil, and another fifteen after that trying to convince you he has never heard of a number line so he can't possibly draw one.

Your Taurus child will spend such a long time trying to get out of 30 minutes worth of homework that he will miss story time and have to go to bed right after his bath. He will point out that this arrangement is unfair.

"Too bad, so sad!" you'll say, in a sing-song voice. (No you won't, because it's mean. But your eyes might roll so far back into your skull that you see your brain.)

That's the bad.

It's A Glamorous Job, But Someone Has To Do It

The surest way to make sure your children will need your attention is to stop looking at them. No matter what you do to prepare them for the moment you turn your eyes away, it never fails.
"I am going to the bathroom and I would like to go ALONE," you say. You try to leave the children in the care of their father, who offers to take them to the toy section of Target, but the chance to be with you is just too good to pass up. Count on all the children jumping on the bandwagon, no matter how many or how few you have.

When you get to the bathroom, the little one will want to share a stall. He'll also want to pee first, but only after you cover the automatic-flush sensor with a strip of toilet paper so it doesn't go off on him mid-pee and scare the bejesus out of him. Then he will start to pee but have to stop to cover his ears when the hand dryers start to go off, because they sound like jet engines mounted in an echo chamber. He will stop and start three times, peeing all over the seat you need to sit on in the process. When he's done peeing, he will need help pulling up his pants and also buttoning them, because those fine motor skills are still developing. (I move that small people wear pants that close with velcro from now on. Someone make it happen.) By the time you finally get to use the toilet yourself, your eyes will be a deep shade of yellow and your bladder (whose structural integrity is probably questionable after birthing three children) will be at capacity plus one.

You'll have to pee fast, too, because the older children will have insisted on using the men's room, where there is never a line. They will have made it in and out of the bathroom in thirty seconds flat, and despite having been threatened with THEIR LIVES, could be up to anything out there by the water fountains. You will finish in record time and leave the bathroom without washing your hands, because it's easier to risk death from a staph infection than it is to peel a three-year-old off your face when he realizes the only way to dry his hands is with the jet engines. The older two will be outside the bathroom, standing where you told them to stand, but making fart noises with their armpits. Sweet relief. Sorta.

If this has never happened to you, your child is either a robot ... or imaginary. Or not your child at all, but a borrowed child actor who is highly paid to act like a robot.

Maybe you'll say something like this: "I have to hem some curtains, why don't you guys watch a movie?" Mothers of boys, here is where sex and gender roles and/or stereotypes will be tossed out the window. No, not tossed out the window--rather, crushed to death and then set on fire. They will be mere grease spots when your boys are done. Because your boy children, who actively seek out occasions to hate on Barbie and My Little Pony and Pretty, Pretty Princess toys and Easy Bake Ovens will suddenly develop a passionate interest in sewing. They will eat, sleep and breathe sewing. They will live and die for sewing. (Not that boys don't sew. It's just that MY own children typically prefer shooting each other with Nerf darts and trying to play their farts to the tune of Mario Brothers.)

"Can you teach me how to hand-sew?" they will beg, little beseeching faces turned up like sunflowers. And the oldest child, who is gifted and perhaps lacking the proper amount of common sense, will invent a design project so epic that even Tim Gunn would cry about it. "I just need some duct tape, a staple gun, some fleece and some matches," he will say, smiling as he sketches out his idea: The Ultimate Flaming Sweater of Doom, which his teddy bear will wear. The middle child will start sewing something and then cry because it's TOO HARD and he's NOT GOOD AT IT, right before he stabs himself with the needle--while the little one will find something sharp (a rotary cutter, perhaps, or your best sewing scissors) and make small pieces of fabric even smaller. Really, you should thank your children. All you wanted to do was hem some curtains, but here they are, showing you how fun sewing really is, infusing everything with a new joie de vivre.

Right?

Perhaps one night you'll have a headache, the splitting, hold-your-head-together-with-your-hands kind. You'll eat dinner, down some aspirin, then slink off to bed, stealthily leaving the children in the care of their capable and willing father.  You will get comfortable-ish and pull your head under the blankets, but the peace won't last long--the little one will climb the stairs and find you. He will seek you out like a hired hitman, and then he will jump on your head. "Mommy!" he will say, with exactly the same look on his face as you might have upon rediscovering a dear, long-lost friend. He has been looking for you his whole life! Of course, you won't be so happy to see him. You, being in pain, will yelp, which will make him cry. And cry. And cry: the kind of heartbroken, wounded keening you only hear at funerals, which will then give way to blood-curdling shrieks when you threaten to throw him out of the room.

The final blow will be delivered when he finds out you won't be turning on the TV in your room for his enjoyment. You gently remind him that his FATHER and his BROTHERS are watching Nova downstairs, but it will be too late. Rather than join the people with the television, your three-year-old will instead choose Option B: writhe around on the floor, fake choking and pretending he's about to vomit. "I really think I'm gonna throw up!" he will wail, and then he'll grab his throat and cough cough cough. "I don't know what to doooooooooooo!" he will add, with more stage coughing and writhing.

"You should go downstairs. Or go to bed," you say. "Just get. out. of. my. room."  You will bite the words off short, willing your hands to stay at your sides, your voice to remain measured and patient, but you won't be able to keep the hissing note of anger completely out of it. You will sigh. You will try to remember that he's only a child and he's probably tired. But then you will realize it's been ten minutes, he's still shrieking, and you're in danger of having to pick the left side of your head up off the floor. It will take all your strength not to punch him in the face. You DO take the high road, though, and simply say, "I'm walking away now." Which you do. The only problem with this plan is that the child is still in your room, with your big comfy bed, and you are downstairs on the much lesser futon.

Alone time is for chumps.

This "remove your eyes, need attention" rule always applies, no exceptions, regardless of whether your child is male or female. At the playground--you will look away, and your child will choose that moment to land face first in the mulch at the bottom of the slide. At the doctor's office--you will be filling out a form, and your child will scale the exam table and start ripping the sterile paper on which he's sitting. At the petting zoo--you will be putting a quarter in the food machine, and your child will trip over a chicken and land in a water bucket.

It's the hard, honest, painful truth. You can laugh or cry--but you'll never walk alone.

Ideas for Another Time

1. Your Taurus Child And You: Locking Horns

2. My Imperfections Are Myriad

3. Driving 101: Stay Off The Big Road, Jerkface

4. Driving 101: Your Horn Is Not A Musical Instrument

5. Be Kind, Whether You Like It Or Not

A Bad Day's Work Is Better Than None At All

One of the things no one ever tells new mothers is that breastfeeding is hard. And when I say hard, I don't mean hard like they just ran out of mocha at Starbucks--I mean hard like you just ran a marathon and now you have to run another WITHOUT STOPPING. You think that the baby will arrive and you will bare your breast and things will just work out. Baby will latch on and you will look down at his furry little head with elation and ocean-deep love.

It's a lie.

First, you will labor many hours, trying to bring forth this new life that you helped create. It will hurt a lot and you'll probably cry. When baby finally makes his or her entrance, you will be exhausted, starving and--if you're me--recovering from the effects of general anesthesia (thank YOU, emergency c-section). The baby will cry and root around in your chest area, prompting you to offer up you nipple, good intentions at first making up for your lack of experience. Baby will grab the very sensitive tip of your proffered nipple with a force belying its size and suck for all its worth--and you will cry some more. BECAUSE HOLY HELL THAT HURTS. Your husband, who has just stepped out of the room for a moment to use the restroom, will return to your bedside to find you sobbing and naked to the waist, holding an equally distressed baby.

Oh, the tears you'll shed.

Your husband who loves you will run to the nurse's station and bring back a solid, stocky woman named Annette. Annette will grab your breast in exactly the same way you might pick up a tomato at the grocery store--firmly, unabashedly, she does this all the time. She will somehow get the baby to open up his mouth in a way that reminds you of a snake unhinging its jaw--wide. When the baby's mouth is at the crucial angle, she will aggressively jam his face onto your nipple until he seems to choke. You will be overcome with love and gratitude for this Annette, your savior, the only woman you've ever truly loved.

Peace will reign for ten entire minutes while your baby is attached to your breast. You will feel as if you're getting the hang of this. You will cautiously lock eyes with your husband and tentatively smile, even though neither one of you can believe they're going to let you take this baby home. What if you break it? No really, Annette, we can't break it?

Four days later they'll check to make sure you have a car seat and then they will send you home with the smallest, most helpless person you've ever met. You will realize that you have a cat at home that's easily twice the size of your new son, but that realization will pale in comparison to one still to come: when the milk comes in, your boobs will be triple the size of your baby's head. And that swooping, stuffing move that Annette showed you? Between the c-section scar and your own trepidation, you won't be able to figure it out. Your husband will try to help by talking you through it, but this will only piss you off.

You will stick with it anyway, because you're stubborn and apparently have a high pain threshold. SIX WEEKS LATER, you will get into the shower and burst into tears when the water hits your now cracked and bloody nipples. You'll cry and cry and cry, because it hurts, because it was supposed to be easy, because you cannot face the thought of nursing your tiny, dependent baby ever again. You consider switching to formula, but that just makes you cry more. You think of all the pictures of The Madonna you studied in art history and you cannot imagine how she always managed to look so serene with a baby dangling from her body like that. And you think, really Mary? Do you get to have it easy because you're the mother of God? Is this some kind of joke?

In your sleep-deprived fog, you'll remember that there's a lactation consultant at the hospital where your son was born, and you'll call her in desperation. You have to leave a message because she doesn't answer her phone, so you spend an hour or so wringing your hands and fretting--what will she think of you? How come you can't get it right? When she calls you back, she's kind, her voice is soothing, and she invites you to come to her office so she can find out what's going on.

It turns out that lactation consultants are better than chocolate cake. She's an older woman, confident in her mothering skills and adept at handling the younger mothers of new babies. She has you take off your shirt and then makes you and your son comfortable with pillows. She does the nurse's trick again, but slower, and then she makes you try, so she can make sure you've got it. She explains the mechanics of nursing and weighs your baby before and after feeding, so you can see the proof that you--yes YOU--are producing enough milk for your baby. She gently reminds you that you have all the tools you need for this, and that you can do it. You are the mother of this child, and that's all he needs. For the first time in six weeks, you allow yourself a deep breath, and you fall ocean-deep in love.

Unexpected Sources of Danger in The Land of Saargon

1. Migratorius horribilus is a tall, slender, dark-green grass commonly known as "Migratory Grass." It is indigenous to the foothills of the Western Mountains of Saargon. It is a predatory grass that disguises itself as regular, non-predatory grass. It mostly preys on the goatherds of Saargon, overwhelming and killing them when they stop to eat their lunches or take a nap. Its only natural enemy is the Fanged Bison of Doom.

2. Unicornus rogus is the only known species of meat-eating unicorn, commonly known as the "Were-unicorn." Like their distant cousins the werewolves, they are most active when the moon is full, though there is no transformation from one form to another. They are not native to one specific area of Saargon, choosing instead to roam through the country at will. They are impervious to most types of weather. Were-unicorns are extremely dangerous because there is no way to tell them apart from regular unicorns. They prey on small children that wander away from their mothers. Their only natural enemy is the Fanged Bison of Doom.

3. Narwhalus combatus is more commonly known as the "Sword Whale." They are 27 feet long from tip to tail, and a deep, cobalt blue in color. The make their home in the Arid Sea, just off the Eastern coast of Saargon. Their horns are believed to contain magic, but woe to the man who tries to take it. It's best to wait for the whale to die of old age and then remove the horn from the beached carcass. The Sword Whale has no natural enemies.

4. Bisonius Doomus is commonly known as "The Fanged Bison of Doom." As their name suggests, they are enornous, shaggy beasts with poisonous saber-like fangs. They eat Were-unicorns, migratory grass, and the occasional farm animal. The spend their summers in the foothills of the Western Mountains of Saargon, migrating to the eastern coast in late fall.

Day One: Take Two ... Adopt A Useless Talent

"I can burp the alphabet," the boy announced, with no little amount of pride. He squared his shoulders and put his hands on his hips, Superman style. Being a first grader didn't stop him from attempting to impress the third-grade girls. He was six years old, tall for his age, graceful and assured in his movements as only a small boy can be. He'd never shied away from a challenge, and he seemed to think that burping on command was a sure way to impress the girls that stood in a group around the slide, giggling. Their party-colored leggings and sparkly shoes were a mystery to him, bright spots in the dull landscape of playground mulch. He found them strangely alluring, but didn't know why. They almost never spoke to him, and when they did it was a confusing cacophony of tittering and talk of girly cartoons like The Care Bears. At least he thought that's what the girls talked about. He was never really listening when he raced by, trying to beat his best friend to the good swing.

"I saaaaid, I can burp the alphabet!" he repeated, stomping his foot for emphasis. The girls didn't look up. Clearly they had seen his ilk before. The boy thought it was strange that they seemed not to care--he'd assumed his plan was flawless. He'd thought it up the night before, watching a program about gorillas on the Discovery Channel. The lady gorillas loved it when the men gorillas roared and beat their chests. He wondered if he should actually call them lady gorillas and men gorillas. Maybe they were just boy and girl gorillas? Or mom and dad gorillas? Nevermind. The point was, these girls always stood by this same twisty slide during recess, and he had been trying to find a way to get their attention since the beginning of the school year. He'd tried all his best tricks: climbing to the top of the monkey bars, running faster than his friends where the girls could see him, throwing rocks really far, and jumping from the swings when they were at the top of their arch into the sky--but so far none of the girls had so much as turned a hair in his direction.

 "Doesn't ANYONE want to hear me burp the alphabet?" he repeated. He'd been working on it and he could finally get from A-Z on only two breaths. This was his last trick and his best, his ace in the hole, his sure thing. Why wouldn't they notice him? He was the king of this playground, the fastest, the best, the most handsome. He knew it was true because his mom told him so all the time. He stomped his foot again and the girl nearest to him turned around. Her hair was red and fell in single braid down the back of her corduroy dress. She had a headband with a big pink flower on it and silly bands stacked up her wrist in a rainbow of colors. She smiled. He looked her in the eye, shrugged his shoulders and arched one eyebrow. Then he ran away to join his friends across the playground. Maybe tomorrow.

Day One: 1666 Words or Bust

It’s day one of the challenge and I have already discovered the first and best trick for avoiding work: the internet. How am I to sit here in front of my computer and type away when people are posting things on Facebook! And L.L. Bean has FREE SHIPPING on balsam wreaths handmade in Maine! And those holiday fitness vests they’re selling—will they make me eat less pie at Thanksgiving dinner? Will they make me want to run more or do yoga? What makes it a fitness vest, exactly? It makes me wonder who invents these things and how they get named. When we lived in FL there was this place called “Gentle Waters,” which sounds so nice and so friendly and makes you think happy, relaxing thoughts. Like tubing down a lazy river on a sunny day or a creek flowing over small rocky places. But no, no, no. “Gentle Waters” is a colon hydrotherapy office, a place where you get your anus and intestines rinsed. With a hose. And maybe the water isn’t leaving the hose at fire-hose pressures, but it’s going up there all the same and there go all my happy relaxing thoughts. Perhaps you can comfort yourself with different happy thoughts, such as “My innards are super shiny! And clean! You could eat off them!” But who wants that?

You may have already noticed that this is a plot-less novel.

How does one write a plot-full novel anyway? Do you just wake up one morning and say, “I shall write a story about bunnies that discover electricity and then take over the world.” And then … you do it. You get out your pen or your keyboard and bam--those bunnies have light bulbs and refrigerators and evil smirks, and before you know it there’s your book. Then someone reads your manuscript and thinks it's amazing and so a bound edition with a cover by a real artist is produced and then ... the movie offers start pouring in, as do the NEW YORK TIMES NUMBER ONE BEST SELLER reviews and bite-size, memorable quotes from other authors. And before you know it, Michael Bay is directing and HOLY SHIT THOSE RABBITS ARE AMAZING, LOOK AT THAT CGI and the movie makes one billion dollars even though it has no discernable plot and stars a vapid, busty actress with pouty lips and no actual talent. This is how it happens, right?

Thank God there's probably enough Halloween candy to get me through this. Probably.

Where were we? Plot-less novel. Right. Is it possible to write a plot-less novel? Well, Seinfeld was a plot-less show, right? I'm giving it a go, at any rate. My hope is that the daily act of writing will set free something worth keeping. And if it doesn't? Well, say la vie and hope to God I've developed a new healthy habit.

Four hundred and eighty words in. Time, I'm finding, passes slowly when I'm trying to fill a page. Suddenly, Everything Else sounds like more fun, including scrubbing toilets (which we all know is Less Fun). Maybe now is the time to attempt some story telling, or some truth.

I've been here before, at this computer, with these fingers, and something to say that's just on the tip of my brain. Snippets of things pop into my head all the time, and I think, "I should write about that." But I don't. I find reasons to skip it, to stuff it down, to keep it to myself. Because writing is just one more way to expose myself and what if no one likes it? What if no one wants to read it? Or worse, what if everyone does? Dare I say the things out loud that I have barely said to myself? And yet, I cannot shake the feeling that this is what I was born to do. That my voice, while not loud or always tuneful, may yet be worth adding to the chorus.

Until I settle on a theme or a genre or (gasp!) a plot, I think this novel will be more of a "novel." A novel idea, a novel approach, and a damned ADHD type of read. I will touch on the shiny things and perhaps dig out some of the notes jotted in journals over the years and expand on them. I will get my sixteen hundred words in a day, or die trying (this is where I hit my knees and shake my fist at the sky). All you fans of unnecessary drama? You're welcome.

Here's something I was thinking about as I was falling asleep last night (by the by, falling asleep took much longer than normal, because there are 50,000 looming words in my future and apparently I am full of dread).

Things I've Learned From My Husband's Dog, Catcher:

1. No snack is too difficult to reach, even if you have to also eat the backpack the people are storing it in.
2. Any time is a good time to chew your ass, but quiet moments in the middle of the night are best.
3. Going for a run around the neighborhood is as easy as bolting out the next open door. 
4. Coming when you're called is for chumps.
5. Cat food is WAY better than dog food.
6. Yes, those squirrels DO have it coming to them.

Things I've Learned From My Fat Orange Cat:

1. If you park your fat ass on the people's legs while they're sleeping, it's not likely they will fail to notice you when they wake up (IF they wake up, muhaha).
2. Staring will make your people a little afraid of you.
3. Yowling when you go into the basement to use the litter box is an inexplicable behavior that will keep your family guessing.
4. Make sure you're on the wrong side of every door. People need to exercise.
5. Learn the sound of the non-electric can opener and mysteriously materialize in the kitchen every time you hear it. Even if all that's being opened is a can of black beans--it never hurts to ask.

Remember, friends, this is all about quantity, NOT quality.