Chores are the new Play-Doh

When my ex and I split, I often filled my kid-free days with the never-ending chore list that seemed even grander when there was just one parent doing everything. I wanted to spare the kids the rush of errands from Trader Joe’s to Costco and Walgreens so that when we were together for those condensed hours each week, it was quality time. We'd read and wander to the park to play baseball. We'd blow bubbles and squish Play-Doh between our fingers.

To be fair, I'm sure I also enjoyed that those trips were easier when the kids weren't there. No one to buckle, no one to push in a cart, no one asking for this and that. It was quicker, stealthier shopping.

My kids are much bigger now. They can open car doors and buckle themselves into their seats and wander off to find capellini and edamame and cereal, if need be. But those opportunities for them to help with shopping and cooking didn’t happen very often for a few years as I navigated the hectic life of single parenting with graduate school. And I think my attempts to spare them the minutia of life did them a disservice.

When they arrived at my house on transition days, the refrigerator was full, the shower had shampoo, their clothes were washed. Sure, they have had chores for years, so it wasn't as if they didn’t contribute—they put their clean clothes away, they tidy up their toys and their rooms, they load and unload the dishwasher and sort darks from lights. But removing them from the household shopping equation created kids who didn't appreciate the efforts involved in keeping a house stocked with necessities and supplies.

And on days when I needed them to accompany me to the shops, they'd complain: “Why do we have to go with you??!!” I accidentally created kids who believed that everything happened while they were off at school or with their dad. They erroneously believed that their time shouldn't be wasted on shopping or picking up prescriptions. They erroneously believed that their time was exclusively for themselves. My response to their complaints: “This is part of being in a family.”

My internal voice said the antidote for those complaints was to make them go on more errands. So I started saving the trips to the grocery store and the drug store until after I picked them up from school. That gave me more time during those precious few childfree hours to work and to study. It also got them more involved (again) in helping out.

It was a slippery slope, though, because middle-schoolers actually have a bunch of homework. And between homework and extracurricular sports, they don't actually have much time left in their day for just being at home, together, relaxing. So this summer, we are doing more family tasks. They are bringing their dirty clothes to the garage, learning to use the washing machine, planning meals, writing the shopping list, chopping tomatoes, making bruschetta, cleaning up. We are going on more errands together.

It’s not Play-Doh, but we talk about meals they want to learn how to cook. And when we're at the store, I'm teaching them how to pick produce and to look for expiration dates on milk. There’s still family movie night, cards, and reading, but this is a new way for us to have quality time together. It’s all part of slow process of helping them become self-sufficient, independent young adults.

Nothing but a scaredy cat

A door slammed, jolting me into consciousness. Blinking, I saw nothing. It was a moonless night—no silvery leaves glinted outside my windows as I pushed the blanket away from my ear to listen more intently for footsteps. I reluctantly got up to investigate. No children were about, no lights were on. If there had been an intruder, surely the dog would have barked. It probably came from the neighbor’s house, I told myself as I eased back into warm blankets.

As I drifted back into slumber, I heard the fence gate creak and expected to see the glow of a flashlight as a child approached the house from their sleeping spot in the tree. They probably needed the bathroom or maybe there were too many mosquitoes. I lumbered toward the door. There was no glow, no child. I flicked the light switch and saw tanbark, a closed gate. I’m hearing things, I told myself, and fell back into bed.

For years I lived alone and managed the eeriness of night, the creaking of houses, the slamming of car doors, the voices of neighbors, the scurrying of raccoons and other creatures across the rooftop. But now, used to my husband by my side, things are different when he’s out of town. My subconscious hears regular suburban nighttime sounds and magnifies them into monsters lurking, strangers sneaking, invisible dangers.

In that moment, even as I was still on high alert, I felt very silly. How can I be the competent adult in charge of keeping children and pets fed and safe? I read something recently about how there are no adults, only super-sized kids. And that’s how I felt last night. A big kid afraid of being alone in the dark.

Then a child walked into my room—a nightmare woke him. With my most convincing voice, I told him to think of things he loves to drown out the other stuff—Minecraft, our dog Pepper, his sleeping companion Foofy—and sent him on his way. He came back two other times before I convinced him to take his sleeping bag into his brother’s room. At that point, I couldn’t fall asleep. So I tried to think of the things that I love—my husband and children, my friends, our dog and the chickens, the tempeh Ruben at Dharma’s. I didn’t feel less scared, but I did feel hungry, so I hatched a plan to take the kids to Capitola later this week so that I can munch that sandwich.

At that point, the night sky was easing into dawn. Nighttime sounds were overruled as chickens began to cluck, birds began to chirp, and the fountain began to dribble. Hours later, I am so tired. If I have another restless night, perhaps I will take my blanket and pillow into the kids’ room.

Over sharing?

I like sharing a salad before my meal and my dessert afterward. I like sharing a blanket while watching a movie. I like sharing a bed. I like sharing my dog with friends who like dogs but don’t have their own. Sharing is cool. It makes me feel good. There’s even a Jack Johnson song about sharing. You know the one, the “Sharing Song.” It was on the Curious George soundtrack: “It’s always more fun to share with everyone…”

I have been contemplating sharing and how we learn to share and the importance of sharing because I haven’t been able to stop thinking about an article I came across the other day. It was called, “Why I don’t make my son share,” by Very Bloggy Beth. She wrote: “I think it does a child a great disservice to teach him that he can have something that someone else has, simply because he wants it. If you doubt my reasoning, think about your own day-to-day adult life. You wouldn't cut in front of someone in the grocery checkout line just because you didn't feel like waiting. And most grown adults wouldn't take something from someone, like a phone or a pair of sunglasses, just because they wanted to use it.”

Bloggy, we wouldn’t do those things precisely because we learned to share and because we learned to wait for our turn. Hopefully we also learned not steal someone's sunglasses because we think they might look swell on our own face. Sharing is about enjoying something with another person. Sharing does not mean cutting in front of someone in line. Sharing does not equal taking all of something or taking an item forever. Sharing is about expanding your own personal joy by giving someone an opportunity to enjoy something too. I think I came across her post because someone shared it on Facebook.

Share the crayons with your brother. Share the Legos. Share the trampoline. Share the bowl of popcorn. Share your scooter. Share the bubbles. Share your shovel. Share the calculator. Share the Wiimote. In no scenario do any of these mean giving all the crayons away such that you don’t have any more crayons or that you never get another turn on Mario Kart. It’s about taking turns. It’s about getting to watch your friend have fun too.

The article reminded me of something I read years ago in the foreword of a book. It told the story of a group of children in Africa who were given an opportunity to play with a toy. My recollection is that whichever child accomplished something first would get to play with the toy. When the child “won” the toy, he was sad. When asked why, the child answered, “How can I be happy when everyone else will be sad?”

If I give a bit of my dessert to a friend and they love it, then I feel good. If I share my eye make-up with a friend who never wears make-up, watching her light up at her decorated self gives me joy. Giving opens up a whole bucket of feel-good feelings. I love sharing the extra fruit from our orchard and extra eggs from our chickens. I even like sharing when we don’t really have extras simply because people feel appreciative and that in itself makes me feel good.

The giver gets just as much—if not more—out of the act than the recipient. It’s about joy multiplying because more people are getting to experience something fun. Children who share learn about taking turns and empathy. They will learn about the joy of giving, the joy of helping. The joy of including.

Kids may not get the initial joy in sharing, in the same way that they like getting presents a whole lot more than they like giving them. But I’m going to guess it’s one of those things that happens over time. Like saying "I'm sorry," it gets easier with practice. R had to learn to share me when C was born. I had to learn to share my boys with another woman, and both of my kids had to learn to share me when my bonus kids came into my life. Sharing is the gift that keeps on giving. And on that note, I think I'll go share my bag of water balloons with the kids.

Big kids

We left sunny San Carlos and headed to Half Moon Bay where I’d hoped it would also be sunny (I was wrong). The kids had asked to go to Bean Hollow State Beach, but since I was the only adult overseeing four kids, I opted for the more-contained option outside Sam’s Chowder House. The water ripples like cake icing there and does not roll or tumble.

I spread blankets on the sand and tucked the corners in around me to minimize the fog’s penetrating cold—never mind that the kids were in swimsuits and belly-buttoned in ocean water. I rested my head against a large piece of driftwood. I opened my book and read. It was peaceful.

No one threw sand. No one bit anyone. No one whacked anyone with a shovel—they don’t do that stuff anymore. When they were hungry, they rinsed their hands in ocean water and asked for food using phrases like: “May I please have my sandwich now?” After I handed out caprese sandwiches, “Thank you” fell from their tongues. We would have been fine at Bean Hollow. They would have been fine at Bean Hollow without me.

It’s lovely to have self-sufficient children. It’s also a little bit sad to know that my kids don’t need me that much anymore. No one wanted my hands to build a sand castle or my eyes to scour for crabs. I was simply the conduit for their beach day. I was the planner, the sandwich-maker, the driver. Soon enough, they won’t even need me for that...I should ask my mother about this. I suspect she’ll know just what I’m talking about.

Twenty gigantic minutes

We were under fluffy blankets and our bodies pushed into plush pillows yesterday afternoon as I read book after book after book. There was a little Dr. Seuss, some Shel Silverstein, the story of Library Lion, and the perennial favorite—H is for Homerun.

From there, we took our gloves, bats and balls to the park. There were pop flies, foul balls, and homeruns. There were fingers digging in the dirt, grounders, and dogs. It was a beautiful day and the sun was warm enough that we shed our jackets into a heap next to the dugout.

I managed to make dinner. I cut broccoli, ginger, onions, and garlic. I made brown rice. I fried tofu. I mixed and measured soy sauce and peanut butter, vinegar and molasses. I even sat at the table for three-point-five minutes as I inhaled the end result. I did all of those things, even though I knew it meant I would have to forgo a shower before dashing out the door for my hour-long drive to San Francisco for class.

Even though we did all those things, I still feel like I’ve failed because I wasn’t home at bedtime. I didn't read those stories at the right time of day. I didn’t pull up the blankets, smooth their hair back and touch my lips to their foreheads. I wasn’t there when they decided which moon phase to set the night light to. I wasn’t there to hear whether baby whale was welcome in bed or to hear C remind me to close the closet door because having it open is scary.

I missed those 20 minutes. Those crucial 20 minutes. And somehow it negates the hours that we spent together. I forget about the weight of R on my left and C on my right. I forget the constant, “Wait, wait, go back,” as one of them flips to the previous page to point out an inconspicuous frog in the illustrations. I forget about the 97 pitches I threw, the 39 balls I chased, the glorious dirt I brushed off of their pants, and the 284 smiles. I forget about the broccoli stalks both boys requested as I cut up dinner.

I missed those 20 minutes.

Classes will be done in May. As the endpoint approaches, the more I’m thinking about what I’ll gain when I’m done—Yes, a Master's degree. But more importantly, I'll get to put my kids to bed four nights a week instead of just two. As the endpoint approaches, I’m even more aware of what they’re missing, what they've missed. And I hope that there will be enough time to make up for all that I'm missing, all that I’ve missed.

I know that I have a lot of time with my kids. Quality time. Maybe because R is turning eight and C is turning five, I'm wondering how much longer I get to kiss them good night. How much longer they’ll sleep with stuffed animals. How much longer they’ll want to snuggle up and read the stories they love, the stories I’ve grown to love. Whatever the answer, it won't be long enough.

The things I cannot do

I missed the first PTA meeting. I missed Back to School Night. I missed the ice cream social. And I think it's all been logged into my permanent file.

It's one week in and I feel as if I've already been judged. And not in a your-such-a-great-parent way. No, this is about me not being like all those other well-groomed parents wearing sweater sets and wiping away tears as their kids walk into the classroom without looking back for one last reassuring smile. I'm not like those parents asking how they can help out and when they can start volunteering as the classroom parent. That would not describe me at all.

I would fall on the other side of the bell curve. I'm happy to only have one kid to take care of for five hours, five days a week now that R is in kindergarten. As a result, I'm just not able to jump enthusiastically into a new role as a school-helper-volunteer filled with responsibilities and expectations when what I really need--at least for a couple of weeks--is a respite. I need just a little bit of time to breathe after being the primary caretaker of two kids for five years.

I'm sure I'm approaching this whole education thing from the wrong point of view. And the wrong point of view--just to be clear--would be my point of view. My point of view that sees elementary school as a government-funded childcare center. One that provides a well-rounded curriculum without depleting my bank account. So I'm happy to have a break five days a week. I'm happy to not be paying several hundred dollars a month for preschool.

Yes, the more appropriate point of view would be the teacher's point of view and the school system's point of view. R doesn't really care that I'm not volunteering in his class or helping out with "arts in action." But from the school's point of view, where they are experiencing a budget shortfall and are at risk for losing art and music and physical education programs, they cannot wait for me to take a breather. They need me to offer up my energy and my time and my enthusiasm.

But it isn't going to happen today. In the meantime, I'll avoid one-on-one chats with R's teacher. I'll avoid the parents chattering over who's volunteering for what committee. Perhaps I'll look into filling other needs, like the request on the wall for antibacterial soap for the classroom. That I can handle.

The big K

Many of the women I know have kids starting kindergarten next week. It seems that most of them are feeling quite sad about this milestone because it officially means that their babies are growing up. But just as I was not sad when my kid started preschool, I'm not the tiniest bit sad about kindergarten.

Yes, I'm looking forward to a five-day-a-week break, but mostly I think I'm excited about school--and not sad--because I wasn't sure if my kid would ever make it to kindergarten. He isn't in the hospital. He can walk and talk. He can do math and read. And as of today, he can ride a bike without training wheels. Sure he gets tired more easily than other kids, but for the most part, he will blend right in. For me, it's a relief. We made it this far.

I never thought I would be this person

I'm tired of making the same snacks.
I'm tired of wiping up the same spills.
I'm tired of hanging up the same clothes.
I'm tired of washing the same diapers.

I'm just tired.

I'm tired of the bickering.
I'm tired of tripping over the same toys.
I'm tired of brushing other people's teeth.
I'm tired of wiping other people's butts.

I probably should be fired.

I'm tired of the monotony.
I'm tired of the no-end-in-sight.
I'm tired of the screaming.
I'm tired of hating my kids.

Isn't nurturing supposed to be hard-wired?

I can't remember why I craved this role.
I can't remember why that other life took such a toll.
I can't remember the last time they made me smile.
I hate that this life, this choice does not seem worth while.

The lonely housewife

Gone are the days when my week revolved around playdates. Those breaks in the isolation of new motherhood. The isolation of being at home all the time instead of in an office surrounded by work, coworkers, and deadlines.

There are too many schedules. Too many sibling naps. Too many other things pulling at our time to allow us to get together with any regularity.

That leaves each of us struggling to find our own way. We are rarely alone. But we are rarely conversing with other people our own age. We rarely have free time, and we are trying to figure out who we are now that our kids are a little bit bigger and just ever-so-slightly less needy. They have their own activities, their own schedules. Yet, they are not independent enough to offer more free time and less stress to the parents caring for their needs.

So here I am feeling ever so alone in this strange world as a housewife and mother. It's sometimes gratifying. And sometimes it's not gratifying. I find it all-consuming, yet those feelings are snuggly wrapped with feelings of emptiness. Then there's the guilt, the anxiety, the never-ending chores and to-do lists.

I'm not stagnating. In addition to the lonely parenting, I've been writing and pushing myself towards my self-imposed deadlines. But those things are also solitary, isolating.

Mostly, I miss my friends. I miss our simple gatherings at the park when the kids would roll around on blankets while the moms talked shop--breastfeeding, diapers, sleep, sex (or lack thereof), and what aspirations we had for ourselves beyond motherhood. Talking about our aspirations is much easier than actually trying to sort it all out.

Attempting to sort it all out amplifies just how much I have no idea what I'm doing, where I'm going, or how I'm going to get through the week, or the next hour for that matter.

The evil powers of a princess

Princess Power does not equal Girl Power. Actually, it seems to be Girl Power's Doppelgänger.

I know that little girls like princesses. All things princess. Or more exactly, all things Disney princess. But I have only ever seen it in small doses during playdates. This past weekend everything changed. I witnessed a Princess Party in which "Cinderella" was the guest of honor. This alone was sad because I thought the five-year-old birthday girl should have been the guest of honor at her own party. But she was out-shined by the tall demure blondie in a blue hoop skirt.

While I found Cinderella's show mildly amusing, I mostly felt disheartened by the commercialism. Instead of being uplifted by the spirit of dress-up and make-believe, I was disgusted by the commercialism. And I was annoyed at her overall message of love and helplessness and marriage. She started her show by asking the birthday girl if she was married (reinforcing that if you're not, then you're nothing--even at five).

At one point, Cinderella engaged the enthusiastic group of girls (my two boys were glued to the window watching tee-ball practice outside) in a game involving a red heart-shaped balloon. I imagine she asked for help blowing it up because it would have been unladylike to blow it up herself. While music played, the game was to pretend that the heart balloon was your very own lovesick heart beating--thump, thump, thump--before passing it to the next girl. If the music stopped while you held the heart, then you won a princess ring. I was actually surprised that their gowns weren't shredded back to rags as they clamored for that balloon (each girl showed up to the party in her very own replica of Cinderella's dress).

Don't get me wrong. I'm all for love and marriage. And yes, when I was a little girl, we had princesses. We had Cinderella and Snow White and Smurfette. But we also had Princess Leia. She was bad-ass and her main objective was kicking intergalactic butt, not getting married. And she was far from helpless.

I cannot help but wonder what this kind of reinforcement of helplessness and dependency does to little girls. Women already have a tough time being unmarried in today's society. I know that this is all supposed to be in the name of pretend and make-believe, but we need more princesses who can blow up their own balloons, drive their own coaches, ask guys to dance, and who are not always agreeable for the sake of keeping things status quo.

No one's butt but my own

There was no one to feed but me, no teeth to brush but mine, and no butts to wipe but my own.

It only took 72 hours to undo the damage done to my mental status as a result of spending three years with my children without a vacation from them. A three-day, mini trip to Portland was thoroughly enjoyable, and I'm relieved to find out that I am still me under the stress and frustration of two children who enjoy biting each other, kicking each other, and removing fists full of hair from their sibling's head. While I do love them dearly, I sometimes I feel like they bring out the worst in me, and I find myself shouting (when I should be talking), scowling (when I should be laughing), and wondering how to escape (when I should be enjoying these fleeting times).

Since I've been back, I've been trying to laugh things off a little more and let them sort out their squabbles a bit more frequently. So far it's working, but it has not been easy. They sure know just what to do to make me cringe.

Anyway, I can't remember why I used to hate traveling before I had kids. It was so easy, and there was so much less to carry. I even enjoyed being at the airport. Without children, there was no one to distract me from my latte and my book. And I'm already planning the next get-away. Being selfish, I've realized, is good for the whole family.

The miserable downside of my fabulous new neighborhood

I never considered the downside of our fabulous new neighborhood with lots of fabulous neighbors. It never occurred to me that all of those neighbors would be able to hear what a terrible mom I am or how miserable, loud, and obnoxious my children are. But now that we spend a lot of time outside and the lot sizes are small and tightly packed, they can easily hear my children screaming, crying, and throwing temper tantrums, which are frequent and long-lasting.

Then between screeches, you can hear me trying to stop them from crying and screaming. At first, my voice is even-tempered and soft-spoken as I try to redirect them to something less frustrating. But as my attempts backfire and the crying escalates and shouting persists, I get annoyed and my even-tempered voice escalates into an annoyed boom. I cannot figure out how we went from happily swinging in the hammock to hair-pulling, kicking, and sobs alternated with screeches in just two minutes flat.

As this all-too-common scenario unwinds, I immediately think of the neighbors that I've met a couple of times and who I wave at whenever I see them. I think of their one child who is only 16 months old. I think of how at 16 months, she can't cause much havoc. And then--as they hear all of us shouting and crying and screeching--they must cringe and wonder what kind of terrible mom and terrible children and terrible family moved in right next door to them, not 15 feet away from them, and their nice, quiet, single-child household.

Then, I imagine, as they have a moment to consider the situation, they must certainly think: there goes the neighborhood. Sure this crying and shouting happened at the old house, but our lot was bigger, the house was bigger, and the neighbors were camped out in their own expansive house, far away from our loud sounds. Well, hopefully these new neighbors will be fabulous enough to overlook these flaws.

Just a little too shy

In a recent conversation with Preschooler in Chief about body parts, I couldn't manage to say the word vagina. I managed penis and testicles, but I was unable to say the v-word.

I'm terribly disappointed in my inability to properly talk about girl parts. I'm comfortable talking openly about sex and the female anatomy when I'm chatting with girlfriends and acquaintances, so I'm really disappointed that I wasn't able to say more when talking with PIC. It isn't that I said the wrong thing or misled him. Rather, I just didn't share the whole truth. I'm sure his understanding between boys and girls is this: boys have a penis; girls don't have a penis. Well, I suppose his understanding is a little deeper. He knows that girls are the ones that grow babies in their tummies. He also knows that breasts make milk for babies, and that the milk comes out of nipple-part. Girl nipples, that is. He knows that boy nipples are non-functional, even though he occasionally lifts his shirt so that he can nurse his baby rhinoceros.

So despite my desire to be open when talking about sex and bodies with my kids, I feel like I've failed him a tiny bit. Fortunately he's young enough that it doesn't matter too much. And I know that there will be plenty of other opportunities to get it right as he grows.

It's not all about me, me, me

When we were small, our parents--if we were lucky--told us that we were doing great. That we drew beautiful pictures. That we mastered lacing. And letters. And spelling. And math. They encouraged us to strive for our dreams. To not hold back. To always, always take pride in our work and do our best. Eventually our grades affirmed our work. Then we graduated, and that paper we received summed up the strides we made, the work we accomplished, the things we learned. We got a job and our salary (hopefully) reflected our accomplishments. All along there were ways to feel appreciated.

And then along comes parenthood. And there isn't much feedback. There are no grades or salaries to help me feel that I've accomplished important things. That I've made great strides. That I am doing my best. Much of the time I work to get ahead only to find that I am more buried under piles of sticky laundry, mountains of unorganized toys, and a whole lot of stress. I look down at myself and see rumpled sweat pants, a stained shirt, unwashed hair, and a little acne (how old am I?). It's hard to feel appreciated by the wee folk who like to bite, smack, step on, puke, and poop on me. But after they do, they go and smile or giggle. I guess that is feedback.

As Thanksgiving approaches, I wonder why I want to feel appreciated, why I want the world to know I'm still here and to validate my existence in some way or another. Shouldn't I be the one sending out all the appreciation? The one feeling thankful? I should thank my mom for doing such a great job raising me while my dad was off with his buddies playing sports. I should remember my grandmother and my grandfather and be thankful that they believed in me and helped pay for my college education. I should be grateful that my husband is 100 percent supportive of my writing efforts and that his job allows me the flexibility to be at home with our kids and working at my own pace. I am humbled by the group of amazing people that I am lucky enough to call friends and that have been there for me again and again. I should be focusing on the teeny bits of good news we get with Preschooler in Chief's health.

I want that to be enough. I don't want to be greedy with my own needs. SoCal Attorney Friend recently emailed me a tear-jerker about the trials of invisible motherhood. How mothers sacrifice time and again without anyone really noticing. All along, we wonder why we do it because the job is so thankless. I'm sure you can get the moral of the story without actually reading that piece. And even though it was super sappy, I agreed with the bulk of what it said. I don't want my kids to have to say thanks for every meal I cook, every load of laundry I do, every crafty project I set up, every cup of juice filled, every game we play, every story I read, every playdate I organize, every adventure we go on. I want them to remember that I was here and that they had a fun childhood.

I also want them to remember that their mother was happy. I don't want my own wants and aspirations to overpower that other stuff. I don't want them to see a cynic or a depressed woman. Yes, that stuff is there as I struggle to find my own way. But I'd like to teach my own children to deal with frustrations and letdowns by setting a positive example. The things that get me down and sometimes wrestle me to the ground are small when I consider all the things that I have to be thankful for.

Can you put a timer on that?

Microsoft announced the Xbox 360 Family Timer earlier this week. The Family Timer (which will be available for download in December) will let parents set a specific amount of time that kids can use their Xbox. When the minutes are used up, the machine shuts down. I'd like to take that concept and see if it can be applied to other aspects of life.

For kids:

1. Limit back-talk or nagging: Once the limit is met, the vocal chords are disabled until the following day.
2. Limit annoying toys: You can set a timer on "soundy" toys. Once the time is up, they are silenced until the following day.

For spouses:

1. Limit bathroom loitering: Once the time is up, the lights go off and the toilet flushes automatically.
2. Limit shower hogging: You set the number of minutes allowed per shower. The temperature gets significantly colder as a one-minute warning. Then the water goes off.

For self:

1. Limit snacking: Food eaten after a certain time will cause vomiting and diarrhea.

Which side are you on?

Last weekend Father in Chief installed a sturdy metal gate separating the computer room from the living room in order to protect the kids from the computer and the computer from the kids. But I have found that instead of locking the kids out of the computer room, I increasingly want to lock myself in.

Shed tears? Are you kidding?

I think of images of parents weeping as their kids head off to school. That is probably about as realistic as those images of couples sleeping in separate beds, like Rob and Laurie Petrie from the Dick Van Dike Show in the 1960s. Preschooler in Chief started school last Monday and total elation was the result. If there had been tears, they would have been of utter joy. As soon as he left, I did a little happy dance and got out some chocolate to eat for breakfast. Because I can't eat chocolate for breakfast when PIC is here.

He has been the most annoying, loud, defiant, and obnoxious kid. I'm gritting my teeth just thinking about it. It is best for everyone that we are not spending as much time together. Yes it is nice that I have a bit more time to work, to exercise, and to play one-on-one with Baby in Chief. But honestly, the best part is that I am not with PIC 14 waking hours a day. The chocolate part is nice too.

I thought the worst was going to be the Terrible Twos. Everyone knows about the Terrible Twos. It's a well-advertised fact that kids are annoying and demanding and difficult when they are two. Even people without kids have heard about those Terrible Twos. And two was actually a pretty easy year. But then he turned three. And then everyone started talking about the Terrible Threes. Wait? What? Terrible Threes?? It was all false advertising. I thought two was going to be the worst year. But we took a deep breath and looked forward to the Fabulous Fours. But no, it didn't end there. Now that he's four I keep hearing about the Frustrating Fours. When does this end?? Well, frankly, I'm sick of it. I want the Fabulous Fours, not the Fuck-Off-Mom Fours. I want the Freakishly-Wonderful Fives, not the Go-Fuck-Yourself Fives. I want the Stupendous Sixes, not the Shitty Sixes. How long can this possibly last??

I guess it really doesn't matter that much because as soon as the PIC hits those good years, it will be just in time for BIC to take his turn trying to win the award for Most Annoying Kid. Ugh.

What does this say about our relationship?

My kids leave a trail of mess the way a slug leaves a trail of slime. I'm not saying it's good or bad. It just is. We're working on getting Preschooler in Chief to clean up one activity before moving on to the next, but strict supervision is involved. And with a wiggly baby in tow, I can't be watching every enthusiastic venture PIC makes into the toy cupboard.

So there's mess. There's clutter. There are crumbs. Mix in the fact that my house accumulated an abnormal amount of clutter, junk mail, and mess while PIC was in the hospital. For two months, I was at the house at night to sleep, to eat a late dinner before bed and an early breakfast before heading back to the hospital. I hadn't done much cleaning. I hadn't done much cooking. Kind and generous friends filled my belly with food--and as a result--my kitchen with plastic containers.

Little did I know, all I needed to get things back in shape was the anticipation of a non-family member or close friend to stir my drive to organize. And this past week it was the pending visit by Aspiring Writer Friend. I was driven. Driven to clean. Driven to purge extras. Driven to get my house back where it belongs. Drawers were emptied and organized. Counters were shined to a sparkling glow. Toys were sorted and stacked in bins. Clothing was washed and folded. Dishes were done. Appliances were organized and tucked into cupboards. Apparently, the messier my house is when you come to visit, the better friends we are--and vice versa. I suppose part of my drive was just to prove to myself that despite what my family has been through, I really do have it together. Look at me in my clean house thriving, living, smiling, surviving. I even managed to get both kids to nap at the same time! I'm practically Wonder Woman.

I look forward to the day when AWF and I are close enough that the mess will be left, not because I enjoy living in disarray. But, rather, AWF is a super cool chick and it will mean that our relationship has been elevated to a to a new level of friendship that comes complete with toys strewn in every room, baskets flowing out of the laundry room, and dried up goop on the countertop. But I suppose the downside is that I will lose some of my motivation to clean. That is until I need to prove to myself that I'm still holding it all together.

Where to stash the puny humans

Most of my writing happens when the kiddos are tucked under their comfy blankets dreaming about fuzzy puppies, sprinkle-covered ice cream cones, and dump trucks. Actually, those are Preschooler in Chief’s dreams. I imagine that Baby in Chief’s dreams are more simplistic: his favorite boob, his favorite position for nursing on his favorite boob, and how much fun it is to chomp on his favorite boob with his new tooth.

But it has come to my attention that there is more to creating a book than just the writing part. It seems that there is quite a bit of other stuff. Father in Chief stopped by the local library yesterday and picked up a few tattered how-to manuals on getting a book published. The take-away is this: there is a lot of work to do. I feel confident in my abilities to get the actual writing part of the book done. But writing a book is just one tiny part. It may very well be the easy part, as far as I’m concerned.

All that other stuff… the market research, the queries, the proposals, agents, the back and forth, well, it’s a bit daunting. Especially since much of it involves doing stuff during the day when I’m busy with my full-time job—parenting. Some of that other stuff will require that I go out during daylight hours. It means that I need to do something with those kids. This isn’t 1975, and so it is no longer acceptable to leave the kids locked in the car for extended periods of time, even if the windows are cracked open for fresh air. It is not acceptable to leave them at home alone while they are napping. And it is not acceptable to put duct tape over their question-filled mouths while I sip a frothy latte at the bookstore. Ahem, I mean while I conduct serious research. While I thumb through the titles at the bookstore—titles that have nothing to do with fuzzy puppies, sprinkle-covered ice cream cones, and dump trucks.

I’m sure Baby in Chief would tolerate my research for about 15 minutes while he amuzed himself with his hands, but then he’d want me to actually interact with him. And that would never do. I need to be able to do this work unencumbered by the puny humans in my life. So a small mental setback while I figure out where to stash them for a couple hours a week. I want to work on all the pieces needed to successfully publish my book, not just the easy part. Sure I can and will do some of the research online, but the bookstore is a good place to be when you aspire to have some of your work there someday, as I do.

Because the Giants didn't make the playoffs...

Can you blame Baby in Chief for being so upset? Actually he was very happy in his Halloween costume until he started to ponder its deeper meaning.