I have never had any illusions that I would be capable of homeschooling my children. I have enough difficulty just getting my kids to school – the waking up, getting dressed, getting them into the car, and then out of the car (a clutch part of the process) – keeps me completely maxed out on parenting. I can barely get my kids to brush their teeth, so I have never considered that I might be able to get them to graph equations or to log into Google Classroom and just do the welcome video. After I gave birth to my first kid, and we brought him home and realized all that was involved with that situation, my kids’ father quickly mapped out a timeline counting down the days until they started school. T-minus 35,000 hours.

I have often struggled to relate to homeschool parents. For starters, they choose to spend time with their kids when there is help out there for free, in most places the school will even come pick your kid up from right near your house. I have thought that maybe, okay, if I live on a prairie or on some kind of ranch and the closest school is 50 miles away, well then, I guess I will be driving 100 miles per day to take them to that school.

I lash out at the idea of homeschooling because I am projecting my own shame about how these parents can actually get their kids to sit at a table and do work for more than thirty minutes, and it is probably because the parents have some sort of discipline of their own. They can also sit at a table and work for more than 30 minutes. Perhaps these are the types of parents who actually completed their science fair projects. Even if I got some bread to grow mold (or just found some in the pantry), completing the backboard in addition to that was just too many steps. One year I completely forgot about the science fair until I got to school and saw all these kids and parents toting large backdrops, papier-mâché volcanoes, and glass jars of crystals. Oh shit. I told my teacher I tried to hatch baby chicks but they all died.

I am also assuming homeschool parents do not enable their kids with electronics like its crack so they can have time to themselves for recreational activities like folding laundry or doing the dishes. I have been a single parent since my youngest started kindergarten – I guess the marriage was also part of the timeline – so I often make parenting choices that are based on making my life easier. I use electronics as baby sitters, and I am not ashamed. Now my kids are in middle school and they are still alive, so I feel like the evidence is there that this is completely fine.

My daughter spends most of her time watching feminist videos, so that at age eleven she notices things like gender bias in school dress codes, and she recites lines she memorized from spoken word poetry videos, “Somewhere in America a child is holding a copy of Cather in the Rye in one hand and a gun in the other and only one of those things is banned by his state government.” My son spits out facts about World War II like he is a boomer with a pipe in a walnut library. He makes references to events happening in the Middle East that I do not understand. Of course, also, my kids go to school.

Or they used to. Now they are stuck at home with me. Their teachers are still preparing all the assignments and doing all the grading. I am not homeschooling. I am just in charge of making sure they have access to Wi-Fi and they get their assignments done. We are failing at that by the way. The Wi-Fi isn’t the problem. It is definitely human error. My best skill in this new role of running an entire school, except that I am not doing any of the actual curriculum preparation or assessment, is as the lunch lady. I am great at making lunch. For two kids.

I have never questioned the value of our educators. I cannot do what they do. All of the teachers we have had also know this. My parent teacher conferences usually involve teachers using a lot of sentences that start with, “Well, have you tried . . . ?“  At some point we will look back at this and my kids will laugh about when mom had to try to (not even actually) homeschool them. Unfortunately, they will not be able to use this hardship for their college entrance essays because every kid in America is in the same situation, so they will have to dig deep to find some other obstacle to write about. I think they will be able to come up with something.


None of my students have shown up yet.

Yes, I Like Piña Coladas

Things don’t always turn out the way you expect, like when you think you found a roly poly, but it turns out to be just a bug. Or when you think the air conditioner repairman is flirting with you, but he is really just asking if your air conditioner is working properly because that is his job. Or when you answer a personal ad because YES, you like piña coladas, and then you get to the restaurant and it is the guy you are already dating, which is a real let down for multiple reasons, all related to the fact that it is the guy you are already dating.

If you watch television, then you might think getting your kids ready for school is just about leaning against the kitchen counter with a smile while your kid gets a pep talk from his Frosted Mini-Wheats. The morning routine in our house involves very little smiling and almost no nutrition, but is instead a rigorous process of pressing the snooze button and crying. Once I get the kids out of bed it gets even worse. With my daughter, the mornings start out like the movie Weekend at Bernie’s, except without the white sand beaches and the witty side kick. It is just me trying to dress and feed a completely limp body, dragging her around the house as her legs leave a trail on the dusty floor. Then I try to brush her hair, and it rapidly turns into a scene from the Exorcist.

We have thick hair in my family. When I was a child, I remember fighting with my mother about brushing my hair, and I also remember getting large knots cut out from deep inside the layers where there was probably a family of larks living and making a nest. I once had a bird chase me down the street, swooping and diving at my head because she thought she found a nest-making jackpot, just walking down the street, completely unguarded by predators. Getting my daughter’s hair brushed is the most important part of our morning in the sense that people will actually notice if it is not brushed. Nobody will know that she had a Sprite Zero for breakfast, but they will see that her hair looks like she was recently involved in a shipwreck.

I also have a son. He gets dressed by himself and is mostly self sufficient, but he complains from the moment he wakes up about the atrocity of school. He usually flings himself back onto my bed just moaning as I try to choose an outfit from my slutty professional collection. As I put on my make-up he has usually slid to the floor and is lying on the carpet telling me about how recess is only ten minutes long, no actually five minutes, actually now that he thinks about it, they have not even had recess in twenty days.

Right now we are at the end of the summer and preparing to go back to school. It is that time of year when the denial phase is waning, and I am entering into the chugging piña coladas phase. I do have some mixed emotions about back to school because there is the joy that comes from knowing my children are embarking on another year of learning and growing in the care of qualified strangers, but then there is also the fact that I am a teacher, and soon I will have to pry the piña colada out of my sunburnt hand and put on a slightly more appropriate outfit and get back to work.

I have a lot of expectations for this year about getting up earlier in the morning, being a more organized professional, being a better mother, and most importantly finally finishing the entire series of Sons of Anarchy on Netflix. But life is full of surprises. How could you ever know that the woman you have been with for years and who seems like a total bore really does like making love at midnight in the dunes of a cape, unless you run a personal ad and try to cheat on her with someone else? And it is probably best that I am not playing out my fantasy of hot sex with the air conditioner repairman with the actual air conditioner repairman (it should obviously be someone who is not an air conditioner repairman but has played one on TV), and roly polies are fascinating but frighten easily, just like my ex-boyfriend.

As I try not to let the stress of the arrival of another school year swallow me whole—by firing up the blender one last time—I try to remember that we all survived the last school year. Also there is therapy. And maybe the reason I haven’t finished Sons of Anarchy is less about my ability to finish things and more about the fact that I don’t like all the misogyny and the murder and the leather vests.


Precious Cargo

Whenever I see a headline about somebody who drove their car full of kids into a lake or some other body of water, I never wonder what could possibly compel them to do that. Every time I drive with the kids and I do not end up in a large body of water I take it as a small miracle or as a really terrific coincidence. Most of the time, driving around with my two kids reminds me of that scene in Tommy Boy where the dead deer in the backseat wakes up and thrashes around the car, kicking out windows and sticking his horns through the soft top, except the deer yells, “Mom!” and then tattles on his sister.

I have tried telling the kids, “Don’t make me pull over!” because I have seen that on television, but none of us really knows how that will help. I think the point is that I would pull over on the side of the road and beat my kids into submission, but I feel like that is frowned upon and that I would eventually regret it. I have considered pulling over and just getting out and hitching a ride that is less taxing for me, like with an old blind lady in a Cadillac or with a middle aged white guy with a mustache driving a van with blacked out windows and an axe in the passenger seat, but I never make it more than a few feet away from our parked car. I have found myself a couple of times standing alone in an abandoned parking lot while the kids press their little faces to the window and watch me, knowing very well that I have no clue where this is headed. Realizing their mom might really have gone crazy is the one thing that seems to bring them together. They aren’t stupid, so I think they clearly understand my value, which is that I am the only one of us who has a driver’s license.

Raising kids is hard. And like wild animals, it becomes even more difficult when we choose to bring them inside, especially if they have siblings. My kids sometimes get along. They know how to make each other laugh, probably more than anyone else, and when I hear them giggling uncontrollably in the other room, I start to think that maybe I should keep them both. Their animosity comes from the fact that they are fighting for the same resources. Space in our house. My love and affection. Food. My daughter gets frustrated by the sound of her brother’s voice and for once in her life she would like to listen to “All about That Bass” without him talking through the entire song. My son thinks his sister is a great target for Nerf darts. Neither has any interest in sharing their popcorn. Not one single kernel. I tell them that deep down they really love each other and they assure me that is not true and then they lunge at each other the way a cheetah might lunge at a tiger who has just eaten her cubs or at least just turned off the bathroom light while she was obviously still in the bath tub.

Putting them together in a car is not a great idea. For several years I drove a minivan, which was basically just a DVD player on wheels, and something about the padded headphones and the fact that my son, sitting in the back row, was so far away from me that even though I could see his mouth moving in the rearview, I could not hear him. “Sorry buddy,” I would say as I pointed to my ears and shrugged, turning up the radio. After I got divorced, I traded in the van for a crossover SUV, which more accurately represents my current lifestyle by making the statement that I am almost 40, and I buy a lot of groceries. Once I got the new car, the kids had to learn how to be human in a motor vehicle again. “You just look out the window,” I tell them. They also have to sit on the same row with only a leather arm rest with two cup holders between them, taking turns using the IPOD and Kindle.

When I was a kid, my sisters and I sat three across (best case scenario) in a 1984 Honda Accord, and on long road trips we had to ride in the back of a pickup truck with a camper top. Our travel plans never included layovers at roadside motels, instead we traveled like refugees, leaving at odd hours and sleeping in rest area parking lots, eating what seemed like at the time as one meal every few days. We did not have movies to watch—we only had three to five Cabbage Patch Dolls per person and some am/fm walk-mans that we could occasionally tune to a static version of Eddie Murphy’s “Party all the Time.” The truck had one of those tiny windows between us and the cab that locked from the inside. If we wanted to talk our parents, we had to knock on the window. Sometimes they would open it, but more often they just made a series of unproductive gestures and then shrugged as if there was nothing they could do.

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Parenting Wins

The single most difficult moment in parenting happens right after your kid draws the gingerbread man card in Candy Land. When my son was little he would sob uncontrollably, and I would have to spend my entire afternoon rocking him to calm him down. My daughter just screams and then sweeps everything off the board like she is Godzilla terrorizing a sleepy fishing village. I have considered removing that card, but then I feel like I would be cheating them of a valuable lesson. Also, it keeps me from dying of boredom while playing.  As my kids near the candy castle, I wince each time they draw a new card, and then let out a sigh of relief when the card is a single orange square. When I draw the gingerbread man, I exaggerate how accepting I am of my fate. I shrug my shoulders and say that it is just part of the game, “Oh well. I can still catch up, or whatever, King Kandy is not really my type.” It is very similar to the way I act when someone dumps me. “I totally understand. Good decision. There are still a few good years left before I just give up, move to Florida, and become a crack whore.”

A similar parenting danger zone is when we play a game and I win. This happens all the time because I am smart and great at games. Also I am 39. When my son was little I took him to a child therapist because he was so competitive and would get crazy mad whenever he lost. She played a game of Uno with him while I watched. She let him win. “Oh,” I said.

When I was growing up my mom never let me win, and we weren’t playing games like Candy Land or Uno. We were playing Spades and Gin. She knew every card that had been played and what was still left in both of our hands. “You know the Ace hasn’t been played yet, right?” She would say. No, I did not know that because I was five. After my grandmother was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, I played a game of Gin Rummy with her and my mom. It was my mom’s idea, and I was not sure it was a great idea because my grandmother had spent most of the afternoon telling me to get the baby out of the bathtub, which was terrifying until I remembered we did not have a baby. My grandmother won, and then she lit a cigarette and fell asleep in her chair.

After you have survived watching your children deal with the pain of being a loser, everything else in parenting is easy, as long as you can get a good night’s sleep, which is never going to happen. Before you have a baby, people warn you about the sleep deprivation. I don’t blame them. It is sort of like if your friend survives climbing Mount Everest, and you mention that you are planning to attempt a similar quest, he doesn’t just say, “Meh. No biggie.” He shares his experience to prepare you for the physical and mental challenges. Maybe the impetus to share is based a little more on bragging than sincere concern for your well-being, and maybe he is a little bit of a condescending asshole, but he survived, and he earned it. However, what people do not tell you is that you may never actually sleep through the night again, the way someone who recently climbed Everest might not mention that there is not actually a bar with tank top wearing models serving ice cold Coors Light at the top.

Yes, sleeping with a newborn is tough, but as kids grow they just continually reach new milestones that interrupt your sleep. There is the crawling out of the crib stage, the bed-wetting stage, the scared of the dark phase, and then there is the stage after your kid learns about the possibility of a zombie apocalypse, and she is too terrified to sleep, or you really slip in the parental control department and your kid watches The Hangover 2 and has nightmares about one crazy night in Bangkok. Then apparently there is the stage where you don’t sleep because your kid is out driving around doing all the things you definitely did while driving around as a teenager, and you question how you could get that lucky twice.

In my house, we are currently in the nightmares and fear of abandonment stage. Earlier this week both my kids were in my bed in the middle of the night, like a couple of 50-pound newborn babies. My son had a bad dream. He said, “You know the conductor from Dinosaur Train?”

“Say no more,” I said.

My daughter whimpered in the background, “I can only sleep if I am with someone.”

“Say no more.”

I led them back to their rooms and spent time passed out in each of their beds. We all switched places multiple times, our three paths crossing up and down the hall like our own little disoriented trail of tears—mainly mine. Finally, as my daughter stood in the hallway holding her blanket, sucking her thumb, I just got up and shut my door. In her face. I found her the next morning in her brother’s room. There will come a time when I am no longer around, and they will have to take care of each other, and maybe that time is 3 a.m.

The next day I was tired, but that is just the parenting new normal. Maybe we will get through this stage soon, but there is just another one gearing up right behind it. I remember when my daughter used to bite people, mainly adorable little babies. She would grab their cheeks and then just go in for the kill. When she was in preschool they moved her up to an older age group class because those kids were better able to defend themselves. I told everyone she was just really advanced. I tried a lot of different methods to get her to stop: I removed her from the situation, I bit her back, and then I even resorted to something I like to call “deliberate ignoring.” This is my favorite style of parenting where I just pretend like nothing is happening. I like to think that it keeps the kids from getting attention from bad behavior, but also I am pretty lazy. Eventually she stopped biting, and we moved into a new difficult phase. I know that eventually my kids will not care about winning Candy Land. They will move onto bigger and better games, and it will be even more exhilarating for me when I win.

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This week for a bedtime story my son and I read Rocks and Minerals, and I learned everything I know about rocks and minerals from that book. Why wouldn’t the rock with the black spots be called a Dalmatian? I totally buy it. With my daughter I read a book called Forever After which includes four stories about Disney princesses and answers the question that has been lingering on all our minds since the happy couples kissed at the alter and the screen filled with hearts: how did they plan their weddings?

These weddings didn’t just happen sans adversity. Happily ever after might mean weaving the queen’s pearls into your veil because the weight of them around your neck was too heavy, sort of like chains. It might mean surprising your former dog-beast prince by inviting all the villagers to the reception to show him that he is loved, now that he is not a drooling, maniacal killer and because you are now his emotional support princess. Maybe, if you are the only black princess, it means catering your own wedding by cooking gumbo for all your guests.

I read with skepticism (and occasional eye rolling). I know too much. Usually my voice trails off at the last line of each story, “Cinderella had the wedding of her dreams,” and I close the book, letting out a sigh and putting up my middle finger. I still read her the book, though. I know it is wrong, and I should teach her to be offended, but those tiny-footed princesses make her smile. It is sort of like when a creepy meth addict calls out from behind a garbage can lid, “Nice tits,” and I am outwardly offended, but inwardly quite flattered as I look down and whisper, “Thanks for noticing, man.”  Then the rest of the day I have unrealistically high self-esteem.

Princesses get to be pretty and wear fancy dresses, and they have pure hearts, and they get to use all the animals as their personal servants, and they don’t have to date. They don’t have to check their phone every thirty seconds to see if he called, when they know damn well that he didn’t because he is too busy boning a peasant. The first guy a princess meets is eternally devoted and devoid of personality, unless he is a monster who imprisons her, or a lying thief, or a womanizing frog, but she can change him. She must. She is stuck with him either way. The end!

The Disney dudes are all just versions of Ken with different colored plastic hair. I was not into the princesses as a girl because they were too puritanical for me, but I loved playing with Barbie. Ken was usually just lying on the floor, face down and naked. I liked to do Barbie’s hair, and by “do” I mean that I cut her hair and tried to give her bangs, which never worked, but I kept trying with each new Barbie I received or that was left momentarily unattended by one of my sisters. I also liked to set up Barbie’s house with beds made out of maxi-pads.

For little girls, playing with dolls and watching or reading about princesses is tied up with the fantasy of being an adult. For me, being a big girl was about having killer bangs and a really absorbent bed. I have not yet made either of those fantasies a reality. My daughter is fascinated with weddings and brides. Her favorite princess is Ariel, who gives up her voice to be with the man of her dreams-slash-the first and only human she has ever met. She gets her voice back, but then she has to change species in order to get married. I feel like there are some major issues here that I need to address with my daughter. For starters, I will tell her that she should never give up her voice under any circumstances, and second there are plenty of fish in the actual sea who will love her just the way she is.

I still read my daughter the books. I let her adore the princesses, mainly because I know she is smart enough to enjoy them without being consumed. I am going to tell her that if she ever decides to get married, she should consider eloping. Not because it is easier, but because it will be a good barometer for how she feels about the marriage itself. Does she still think it is worth it without the big white gown and party? Maybe even more controversially, I will tell her that she doesn’t have to get married at all. (Gasp! Tiny princess hands rise to cover tiny rosebud mouths. “Mouse! Get me a paper bag! I need to hyperventilate.”) I will tell her that she doesn’t need to be rescued. I will tell her that she should not have to change herself or the person she loves to find true love. I will also tell her to avoid cursed men who attempt to trap her in a dark, damp castle filled with talking, singing dishes. Then I will tell her that she is a beautiful princess as I brush her hair with a fork.


Don’t Mind Me (as I write down everything you say)

I have been into lists lately. Sometimes I take notes when my kids say funny shit. I like to think this will not be damaging to them, but who am I kidding? My seven-year-old boy is a serious mix of ambition, angst, and affection. He will definitely have road rage as an adult, but he will also be the first person to reach out for a hug. In the meantime, he makes me laugh. Here are some things I have heard him say recently:

I like Hailey. I would never fart in front of her.

It is a good thing there are squid or else I wouldn’t have anything to hate.

Do we have any Kaboom with Oxi Clean?

If we ever go to war and have to use fruit, we are going with pineapple because if someone threw a grape at me, it wouldn’t really hurt.

Going to bed is my worst enemy.

When we don’t have any Gatorade, which is pretty much every day, then I like to drink water.

But seriously what would happen if there was no sun?

The baby was pooped out, just like mom did to us when we were born.

I also have notes from my five-year-old daughter, and I have thought about writing a list with her comments and asking people to guess who said it, either some old man pervert or my adorable girl. I am pretty sure most people would guess wrong. Here are some of the memorable things she has said to me recently:

Can I touch your boobs?

Girl, get in here and let me see your style!

Those pants make me like you more.

I farted.

When can we have some drinks?

I am pretty sure that when she is older we are going to be great friends.

Number Two

I have writer’s block. I squint at the glare from the white screen, not sure how to get words to appear. I need a push. My shitty office job stories have run dry. I am only left with incidents that involve people who might actually read this and be offended or, worse, flattered. I have started to write about my dad, but I need more time to make it funny. Maybe twenty or thirty years.

Writer’s block grows with inertia. Not writing now would be like packing my intestines with sawdust. I need to let it flow. I need a blog-post enema. The only solution, obviously, is to write about my kids’ bodily functions. I know they will thank me for it one day, especially my daughter. She is the youngest, so she doesn’t have a scrapbook. Also I am much more involved in the process of her bathroom visits than I ever was with her older brother. My son is a ghost pooper. He does his business all on his own with no evidence. He is seven, and he knows how to read. There could be a correlation.

My daughter started kindergarten last week and all summer we talked about how she should wipe her own butt once school starts. She agreed. Oh yes. She would do that. But she hasn’t. She comes home from school and goes to the bathroom and then yells for me, “Mama! Wipe my buh-uh-utt!” I run down the hall and swing the bathroom door open with a smile. While I am wiping, she counts my toes. I still have five on each foot. It is clear that I have made the activity of butt-wiping entirely too much fun. That is my curse.

She is an inconvenient pooper. She always has to go number two when we are away from the house. She goes at every restaurant, Target, Wal-Mart, the bathroom at her gymnastics class, the gas station by the interstate, McDonalds. I am paranoid enough to be convinced that she holds it just to make my life harder. As the waitress asks, “Who had the smothered chicken with a side of onion tanglers?” my daughter smirks and says, “I need to go potty.”

When we are out of the house, I am impatient. Maybe there are people waiting outside the door or my enchiladas are getting cold. I can see the germs filling the air—that wad of toilet paper on the floor is probably emitting gonorrhea microbes all around the room. I am sure of it. She puts her hands on the toilet seat. I scream. “Let’s hurry up,” I say frantically. She casually continues with her story about the kitten she saw in the road seven months ago. I mention that it doesn’t seem like she is trying very hard. Her face looks relaxed and natural. She asks me to hold her hand while she finishes, the hand that was just on the toilet seat and is now pressed up against the tile wall. I do it.

There might come a day when she does not want me to hold her hand while she poops.


This morning as I was driving away after dropping my kids at summer camp, I saw my son outside playing a game with a few other boys and a counselor. The boys were lined up against the wall, as if they were in a firing squad, and the counselor was standing out in the grass taking turns throwing a ball at them. When one was hit in the abdomen or in the face, the boy would wince in pain while laughing uncontrollably, and the other boys in line would howl while pointing at him. I thought about how this game would work with girls. If you tried to play this with my four-year-old daughter, she would say, “Oh hell no!” Then she would throw the ball like a missile at the counselor’s nuts and calmly walk back inside and finish her drawing of a princess standing under a rainbow.

Some girls might cry or be genuinely hurt that the ball had been thrown at them, even though that is the sole purpose of the game. I would probably be one of those girls. “I thought you liked me?” The only way I would have enjoyed such a game is if I was excellent at playing it. No matter how hard the ball was thrown, I could dodge left, dodge right, or throw my hand up at just the right moment for the perfect block. That would never have happened, though. I would have been hit in the face, probably in slow motion so that you could see snot fly out of my nose, making me pee my pants while simultaneously starting my period.

When I was a kid, I usually thought I was going to be great at sports, but I was not. I “played” right field in little league—the quotes are used because what I actually did was stand in right field, and when the ball was hit towards me, the coach would scream for the center fielder to “cover” me. Now those quotes were used because he wasn’t so much covering me as he was trying to get the ball while I stared at a cloud that looked just like a doughnut. I was also on the volleyball team for a year in middle school, but I quit because it hurt my wrists and because I never once made a serve that actually went over the net.

I had a field day experience in sixth grade that could easily be dubbed with exclamations like “BOINK!” while stars circled my swirling cartoon eyes. I did a face plant in the tires, was hit in the crotch with a hurdle, and then dragged behind my partner in the three-legged race. After it was over, I was humiliated. I wanted to get off the field fast, so I tried to jump the chain link fence and split my shorts all the way down the back.

The only place where I had any real talent was in the pool. Swimming was by far my favorite activity. I would swim in anything: the Gulf of Mexico, a pool, a drainage ditch. If it had water, I was in, usually head first. I liked to just play in the water by doing flips, touching the bottom, or diving for change, but my favorite thing was racing other kids, especially if I was sure I could beat them. I would scope out worthy opponents, and they were usually smaller and slower than me. I might ask a kid floundering in the baby pool or proposition someone as they were being rescued by lifeguards. I always won, and it felt great!

I am definitely competitive, but not the traditional type that might propel someone to strive for greatness, more the kind that just likes to show off. My son is the kind of competitive where he is absolutely positive that he is the best at everything. We played Battleship recently, and as I was setting up the game he said, “Oh, I am not going to need any white pegs.” I never thought about it, but you only need the white ones if you are planning to fuck up. The problem for him is the wake-up call that happens when he loses. Maybe I am a naval mastermind, or maybe I lined all my ships up at the bottom. Who knows, but he lost, and it was tragic. My daughter is different. I am not going to say that she wouldn’t race a handicap kid in the pool because she just might, but she seems to at least understand her limits. I can’t see her arguing that she should bring up the rear of the relay team at field day even though she has the coordination of an emu.

She isn’t competitive in the usual sense, not like my son who has the attitude that if you are not first, then you are a worthless piece of crap. I often have to convince him that it is okay to lose. At soccer, I will remind him that everyone is going to get a trophy—even his sorry team. My daughter has never played soccer, but she played t-ball one year against her will. She never wasted her time going for the ball. She was just out there, sometimes facing the batter, waiting for the game to be finished so she could line up for a snack. We are alike in this way. Life is just a series of accomplishments that lead to snacks. We are just like Scooby Doo.

For me, if you aren’t first, then there will be little opportunity for congratulations or cash and prizes. I can get just as intense about catching a free t-shirt shot from a cannon as I can about winning an award for my accomplishments. My daughter likes stuff. She has a better chance than any of us of being on the show Hoarders—she will definitely care about the prize. My son will spend an entire afternoon on the playground racing against other boys just for the reward of knowing he was faster. Unlike me, who might try to race the kid on crutches, he will try to race the biggest, fastest boy because the glory of that win is indescribable. My daughter will probably be in the bushes picking up bottle caps and cigarette butts. She is not going to waste her energy just for the satisfaction of winning. Fuck that shit.


This is my son a few days after he was born. He did not weigh 60 pounds like I was expecting, actually he still doesn't.

This is my son a few days after he was born. He did not weigh 60 pounds like I was expecting, actually he still doesn’t.

This summer my kids will be seven and five. Even though it has been years, there are still days when I feel thankful that I am not pregnant, and then I chug a pot of coffee, shoot some tequila, put on my tightest pants, and hop on a roller coaster—just because I can. I know pregnancy is supposed to be a beautiful time, and I should have been grateful, but I felt more like I was serving a sentence. I love my children, I even like them; I just prefer them outside my body. My second pregnancy was easier to endure than the first because I had a toddler, and pregnancy made us sort of the same. We both liked to take long naps in the middle of the day, we were both constantly sober, we wore a similar style of elastic pant, and sometimes we even both peed on ourselves.

Now as my kids get older and parenting becomes increasingly challenging—babies are a breeze—I think back to my pregnant self, taking naps under the desk at my office, spending Saturdays on the couch watching Rock of Love marathons, and I think, what the hell was my problem? Maybe the actual pregnancy had nothing to do with my frustration. Maybe with the first pregnancy I was dealing with the loss of my independence, the acceptance of a great responsibility, and the disintegration of life as I knew it. Once my son was born, it all felt right and even worth it, but the nine months of stewing almost did me in.

The following is a reflection of a first-time, glowing (sweating, really, especially under the boobs) pregnant lady:

In my mind, growing another human life requires a lot of calories, and a large portion of those calories should be in cake-form and eaten in bed while watching reality television. My basic pregnancy diet theory was based on the idea that by not drinking alcohol, I would automatically be consuming fewer calories, so I could eat anything I want. This proved untrue pretty early in the pregnancy, as I could no longer fit into my regular clothes minutes after I peed on a stick. Once I realized I was not going to be one of those girls who looked like she just swallowed a basketball and that I would be more like one of those girls who looked like she swallowed an entire basketball team, I told my elastic waist pants to hold on tight because they were in for a wild ride.

I gained the full 25 pounds of recommended weight in the first six weeks. Other than the extreme gigantism, the pregnancy was going well. I was only sick for the first few months, and I felt pretty agile, like for instance if I dropped my piece of late night cake, I could easily roll off the bed and retrieve it. I read all the pregnancy books and subscribed to the weekly pregnancy email updates. (Your baby is now the size of a hamster! You are now the size of Australia!) I was inappropriately nonchalant about the labor process, and even once compared it to training for a sport, like a volleyball match, which might have been a valid comparison if during the match I accidentally swallowed the ball and then had to volley it over the net from my vagina.

I was so ready to be done with the pregnancy, to meet this baby that everyone had been talking about, that I was willing to go through any means necessary to get the job done. If the doctors told me that in order to get the baby out they were going to send a team of ninjas to my house to attack me, probably right in the middle of my favorite meal, I would have said, “Sign me up!”

Finally after eating my way through three seasons, my due date arrived. There it was circled on the calendar, the day that had been etched in my mind since my first doctor’s appointment 67 pounds ago. Seven days later, I checked into the hospital for an induction. I put on a backless gown—finally some room to breathe—and then settled in for some heavy breathing and gripping the sides of my rocking chair. I paid attention in labor class. I saw the videos. I knew what to do. I let the nurse know that I would not be getting the epidural, and she was polite enough not to laugh, but did suggest that if I changed my mind I should let her know as soon as possible. I had a killer mix CD, so I was sure I would be fine. A few hours later, as I rocked faster and faster with my husband staring at me from a nearby chair with blood coming from his eyes, I suggested he get the nurse and see what she could do. I was not against any measure, like euthanasia for instance.

Eventually, I got an epidural. Then about two hours later, one of the most exciting moments of my life happened: I gave birth to my son. He was perfect. He looked like a miniature version of my husband, which was a little weird, but adorable. I, however, did not look like a miniature version of anything. In some of the photos from the hospital I look like a really fat Sally Jesse Raphael, aided by the fact that while I was pregnant my vision got really blurry, and I had to get glasses to see my food.



Writing starts somewhere, but not always at the beginning.

Sometimes as I am going about my day a little spark will ignite—a little ember that seems worth writing about. Usually these are little moments, and it isn’t always something exciting or all that interesting, just a moment that seems right, as if I can already read it. When this happens, I like to type my ideas, even if it is just a few lines so I can go back to them later. When I sit down to write I will usually browse through my files to see if I can create something out of the ashes.

Today I found this little collection of “starts” about my daughter. I am not ready to use them yet. Maybe when she is older these will become reflections in a larger essay, but for now they are just little glimpses.

This afternoon my daughter asked me to be a guest speaker in her pretend class of baby dolls. I asked what she would like me to talk about, but she just directed me to sit down—crisscross applesauce—behind her row of half-dressed but very obedient students. Then she handed me a stuffed elephant and a small pink hair dryer and told me, “Rose petal likes her hair blow-dried.” While I blow-dried the elephant, my daughter went through the contents of her purse, pulling each one out and showing her students, “This is my lip gloss, this is my mirror . . .”


My daughter shows up in our room in the middle of the night prepared to stay for the long haul. She brings her blanket and a stuffed animal, places her sippie cup of milk on my nightstand, and puts her slippers on the floor beside the bed.  When I wake up in the morning, it feels like I am the one who is just visiting.


My daughter likes to say, “I love you more” after I say, “I love you,” but then she wants me to say “I love you most” back to her like from the Disney movie, Tangled. Therefore, she plays the part of the adorable and kind-hearted lost princess, and I am the evil old witch that kidnapped her. This doesn’t really work for me.