Planet Mom:

Striving to make frazzled moms and dads Everywhere slow down and savor the madness...

...because mommies don’t punch a time clock. Their shifts never truly end. And downtime is nothing but a myth—unless, of course, you count the smidgen of time spent alone in the shower or those precious moments locked within the solitude of a closet, where the din cannot follow and where the world can wait until we’re reunited with our marbles—yet again...

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Planet Mom: It’s Where I Live…™

                                                                                                        notesfromplanetmom.com

below are some excerpts from planet mom articles:

Copyright 2003-2010 Melinda L. Wentzel

“Everything about this Yukon, or ‘Jack’ which I had affectionately dubbed it, seemed to whisper, ‘You want me, you need me and you KNOW you love me.’ Even the color, a marvelous shade which promised to hide months of road grime, charmed us into thinking we had to have it. We were a salesman’s dream come true—a veritable pile of mush incapable of rational or logical thought. Hopelessly smitten.” 

“I also give thanks daily for cats that are litter box-trained, fish that are quiet and for children who eat neither the fish nor the litter. Moreover, I’m quite fond of super absorbent diapers, no-leak sippy cups and the magnificent shelves in my refrigerator that prevent spills from becoming major catastrophic events. I am also thankful for par five’s with wide, treeless fairways that possess neither an ounce of water nor a grain of sand. Sunny days are nice, too.”

“Perhaps these curious-minded individuals enjoy the adventure, the challenge or the thrill associated with attempting to complete each assignment successfully. Or maybe they’ve watched too many episodes of Bob the Builder.” 

“Surrounding me are constant reminders of where I am and why I’m there. Posters of people with big, toothy grins adorn the walls, 3-D models of teeth rest on end tables, patients emerge with mouths full of cotton and fists full of shiny, new toothbrushes and dental floss and the monotonous drone of drilling permeates the air. Throw in a child’s shriek here or there and I’m done.”

“Historically, I have always struggled with staying on top of anything that smacks of domestic responsibility. I have no doubt that by gathering all the crumbs burrowed deep within our carpet fibers, I could sustain an entire flock of birds from Thanksgiving till Easter. And with all the Play-Doh collected from the same source, I’m certain that I could build a life-sized replica of Mr. Clean. He’d be scowling, for sure.”

“When, what to my wondering eyes should be found, but a tangle of lights and my spouse on the ground!”

“I could wear jingle bells around my neck, bathe in pine-scented bubble bath, sing ‘fa-la-la-la-laaa-la-la-la-la’ till doomsday and even hand deliver my wish list to the North Pole, but none of it would inspire me to tackle my Christmas responsibilities any faster.” 

“What’s more, I think those highly revered big kid pants, advertised nearly every waking moment, cost more and do less. They’re nothing more than glorified diapers. Even my toddlers know this. They’re not stupid, just soggy much of the time.”

“'Hey, let’s ask this perfect stranger, or better yet, this lovely mannequin how gorgeous you look in that dress!' If it wasn’t the color, it was the cut. If it wasn’t too short, it was too shimmery. If it wasn’t too racy, it was definitely dowdy. I thought it would never end.”

“On the outside, dads are like steel. Anodized steel to be exact. But way down, deep inside, they’re all mush. Every last one of them. Show me any cantankerous, tough as nails, testosterone-driven Neanderthal, and I’ll show you his softer side—and we needn’t even be near a Sears Department Store.”

“I miss my sporty little BMW. Granted, it had logged several miles, bore a few characteristic dents, and its once lustrous exterior had begun to fade as a result of spending numerous summers in our sun-drenched driveway. But it had character. It had zip. It was spunky. I have to admit that I felt zippy, spunky, and absolutely full of character whenever I drove it.”

“Neighborhoods are where we grow our gardens and our children, build tree houses and relationships, and it’s a place where we can fly our flags with pride and hang our hats with ease. It’s the refuge where we replenish and recondition for the here and now and where we nurture all our hopes and dreams for the future.”

“Happiness was a warm, sunny day, a friend or two and a few bucks to squander on all the important things in life: A wad of carnival tickets, mountains of cotton candy and snow cones that turned lips to the most glorious shade of blue. Having money to burn and hours to wile away felt oh-so-wonderful. And independent. It was Independence Day after all.”

"For starters, let Mom take a real, live NAP. Not one of those namby-pamby dozing sessions on the couch that lasts for 15 minutes, rife with interruptions of the non-urgent variety. Set some hard and fast ground rules too. No one is to disturb Mom unless the sky is falling or someone’s hair is on fire."

"Pick up after each other. That’s what Mom does 24/7. Give her a break for Pete’s sake! That means no smelly sneakers, underwear or sweat socks lying around for all to enjoy, no barbed toys lying in wait for her on the stairs and no decomposing apple cores on the coffee table or empty Cheetos bags stuffed under the sofa pillows. Muster the strength, somehow, to make it to the hamper, toy box and trash can."

"It’s the time of year when most of us are ready to offer our battered shovels, ice scrapers and snow blowers as a sacrifice to the gods of inclement weather—eager to accept hedge trimmers and lawnmowers in trade. We become fixated with the Weather Channel and with those blasted little Weather Cubes that house a tiny, monotone man. We remain tuned in around the clock and take great pride in updating everyone with the latest forecast for precipitation. We issue special alerts should the sky begin to fall."

"When the first baby gate came crashing down I truly thought I understood how Berliners must have felt back in 1989. And Mr. Gorbachev never even laid eyes on the mammoth twelve-piece, cumbersome contraption that snaked through our living room, clearly and definitively separating the resident Lilliputians and Gullivers of the household."

"Perhaps those who die, do far more than leave us with cherished memories; they may clarify for us the significance of our very existence and teach us how to really live—to dance today, as if there will be no tomorrows. We’re suddenly awakened, jolted and shaken from our cozy state of presumption—in which life itself is taken for granted. Strangely, death forces us to embrace life, to grab hold of it and vow to never again let go."

"And sadly, a few even expressed that well-meaning parents and in-laws made them feel like total failures if potty-training success wasn’t achieved by some fancy-schmancy, research-driven, carved-in-petrified-Pampers date. Gee wiz; I must have been categorized as hopeless."

"Why do our children strip them completely bare with not so much as a pair of pink, plastic stilettos to dignify them? Even G.I. Joe’s dog tags often wind up missing in action."

"I have to admit, listening to such 'conversations' is one of my favorite things about being a parent. It’s like spying, but legal in all 50 states. And it’s true; kids do say the darnedest things. Many of which occur during Barbie pow-wows."

"Good parents know the rules: Quiet can only mean one of three things—our children are either asleep, away or destroying something valuable."

"Clouds of multi-colored pebbles and fish gunk swirled around and around like dust, following the path of the whirlpool that had been created. Plants had been totally uprooted and floated on the surface like slimy, green surfboards. No doubt, the fish wouldn’t have known his dorsal fin from his tail since visibility was very near 0%. I’d bet the house he was dizzy, too."

"'Mommmmmmy! It’s wakie-wakie-up time!!! Time for brefff-tast!!' They pounce, prod and pester—until I emerge from the murky depths of my only remaining refuge on the planet—sweet slumber. Good grief, I’m in search of peace and quiet at that hour—not a Glee Club Assembly. Mr. Chipper himself often regales in his quest for infecting anyone and everyone in his path with the effervescence he positively exudes each morning."

"No red flags popped up. No little voice in my head warned me of impending doom. Even my mommy intuition failed to send a reliable signal. Darn thing is probably faulty anyway. I yanked the seven-pound dripping mess [a completely saturated bathroom rug] off the floor, raced to the bottom of the stairs with it, flew past my adoring husband (who knew better than to question what I was doing), threw open our back door and flung it. I’ll be the first to admit that it felt reeeeeeeeeeally good, too."

"It was there that we captivated like-minded audiences by feeding rumor mills, acting foolish and spilling our pie-in-the-sky dreams to each other—with the sort of passion and aimlessness only teenagers can exude. Aaaaah, youth: Where the worlds of exuberance and naïveté collide, when words mean absolutely everything and positively nothing at once and when the process of tasting self-discovery becomes both the “how” and the “why” of our journey toward adulthood."

"I’m referring to the stuff we’d rather not EVER hear tumbling from the mouths of our otherwise well-mannered progenies. It’s the verbiage that makes us cringe with embarrassment and seethe with anger. It creates within us a tremendous sense of urgency and an intense desire to stifle the spillage at its source by ANY means necessary—including stuffing a sock in it. Naturally, these dandy little snippets of speech are nearly always recited verbatim, IN CONTEXT and delivered with enough dramatics to win an Oscar."

"Naturally, I was too busy quelling the girls’ ooohs and ahhhhhs, fumbling around with a half-functioning flashlight and wrestling with WAY too many maps. Taming the tirade-prone creature behind the wheel fell under my job description as well. I deserve a medal."

"Of course, anything sporting the label 'low maintenance' around this madhouse gets my vote. It positively rules. I figure, if it doesn’t have to be fed, bathed, potty-trained or disciplined, it’s a keeper."

"But what amazes me most is the uncanny ability with which this man can pluck a particular scrap of paper, abandoned tool or broken gizmo from depths unknown to man, then hand it over nonchalantly as if a piece of driftwood could have done it. Strange but true. And since he possesses said 'talent,' it pains me to think that his trash may, in fact, never die—but live to annoy another day."

"I think Tuesday had rolled around by the time our food finally arrived. Most of the crayons had been broken by then and my husband and I had resorted to helping our four-year-old progenies build towers with the little boxes of strawberry and grape jelly. It was better than suggesting they play nicely with their ice cubes."

"She was the picture of all things gauche, tactless and rude. An idol for anyone and everyone who has ever aspired to being uncouth. A shamefully reprehensible legend in her own time. I’m quite certain she could have also been a star—in a blooper training video, highlighting precisely what NOT to do as a waitress."

"Apparently the hype surrounding those superific, mondo-absorbent, huggly-snuggly things on the market these days ends when it comes to guaranteeing they’ll hold together upon impact—with about a dozen stair steps—especially when the saturation point has been maxed. I know this much is true; because about a gazillion marmalade-ish chunks and pea-sized particles spilled the length of our staircase following the piñata-like explosion of said diaper."

"My theory (which is merely hot air blowing and based on absolutely nothing) is that once in a while people simply need to 'lose it'—to go ballistic, to vent all that pent up ugliness and then go back to the Land of Composure like nothing ever happened. Cool as a cucumber. Reunited with our marbles once again. Savage beasts—tamed."

"I know when I’m spent—when enough is enough. It’s when I need a nap more than my preschoolers do, when I awaken in the morning still washed-out from the day before, when I fantasize about weekend hibernation getaways and when I toy with the notion of locking myself in a closet."

"Sometimes I think my kids are really aliens from Planet Interruptus and their collective mission is to prevent me from completing a single thing in my lifetime—unless it involves tying shoes or answering one of the 87 questions they fire at me daily."

“Mom, I’m not running (with scissors)...I’m galloping!”

“Okay, Captain Fruitage. Mr. Happy Harvester. If you say so. Just get on with your foolishness and quit trying to save me from a life filled with apathy toward the wonderment of reaping that which we sow—namely, the apples and peaches and pears, oh my! You’re obsessed. Positively obsessed. And you seem to grow even more fanatical with each passing year. Ugh.”

"A Poster Mom I am not. I’d say I’m closer to a well-intentioned ditz with a thing for chaos. Closer still: A consummate buffoon mired in a state of endless disorganization."

"Quite honestly, I felt about as purposeful as a piece of driftwood the last time one of the Dynamic Duo crashed and burned. She sat there on the concrete amidst tiny puddles of her tears, holding mammoth-sized ice packs on both knees—a sad little sniffling creature. 'Mommy, am I almost done getting boo-boos?'"

"The skies were as blue as the cotton candy the kids wore on their faces that day, and the sunshine felt like that of Indian summer. It even lulled me to sleep once or twice while I lingered on a cozy park bench, amidst the strums of wandering banjo players and the laughter of children."

"Presently I’m the reigning Disaster Area Cleaner Upper (although I hold a myriad of other equally absurd yet strangely purposeful titles, all of which fall under the subheading: Mom). That’s what I am. Nothing more and nothing less. At least it feels as though that is the total extent of my current function on the planet—a cleaner upper."

"Simply put, everyone even remotely connected to this remarkable event seemed genuinely happy. And it was good. And the mothers rejoiced. And that was good. And the gods smiled graciously upon Pajama Day. And that was undeniably good."

"Tell me the kitchen ceiling might cave in due to a leaky shower system above and I remain completely composed. Park a Christmas tree in my living room (and upset the delicate balance of disorder that already exists there) and I’m a raving lunatic. Go figure."

"I don’t know what drives me to do it—to clandestinely rid my home of dilapidated Barbie dolls and other playthings that annoy the heck out of me. They just push my buttons, I guess—the Barbies especially—scads of them littered across my living room floor, lounging around like they own the place, mocking me with their perfect little painted-on smiles. They don’t even dress half the time. Heathens."

"The official report: Ken’s perfectly sculpted (and impeccably tanned) synthetic leg had been completely severed from the hip down. A gaping hole in the pelvis region revealed even more damage—a broken plastic hinge thingy. Translation: Ken’s pelvic thrusting days were probably over. Jogging with Skipper was out of the question, too—unless he had a miracle up his surfer shorts."

"...marketers (of iPods or the like) would do well to tell us the truth. Warn us of impending danger—or the possibility that we may light our hair on fire in frustration. Tell us there WILL BE GLITCHES—AND UNPRECEDENTED CONFUSION—and that a smooth set-up would be EXTRAORDINARILY UNCOMMON. Don’t sugarcoat your sales pitches either; we’ll only end up hating you more. And unless you’ve actually witnessed a monkey successfully operating your product, don’t give us the impression that one could. That’s just plain mean."

"So I decided to give her Positive-Reinforcement-Behavior-Modification-Creative-Parenting-WONDER-PLAN a whirl—all the while WONDERING why she hadn’t suggested I try bribing my kids in the first place. Would have saved us all considerable time and trouble."

"...I muttered to myself as I raced to the bathroom. Thankfully, no one had flushed—yet. That was MY job. And like a fool, I did just that. Without thinking. Without consulting. Without arming myself with a plunger. I just flushed. And prayed. Never thought to first remove the massive wad of toilet tissue mingled with bazillions of wipes (among other things). But then again, I’m no wizard when it comes to such matters."

"...I remain hopeful that most of you have found my weekly spiel to be mildly entertaining and that my patented journey to the Land of Cynicism has caused you to nod your head knowingly on occasion (or to bang it on a wall in unison with mine). In 700 words or less, I’ve tried to make you slow down and savor the madness, to embrace disorder and quash the relative significance of opportunity costs altogether, to thumb your noses at the multitude of challenges and frustrations we face and to make you drunk with joy over something as simple (and as sacred) as the return of bathroom and bedroom privacy. I’ve also stressed the importance of not taking yourselves too seriously—the benefits of which are overrated anyway." (Taken from Planet Mom's 100th column)

"Remarkably, I could visit the bathroom without an entourage of spectators, and bedroom privacy had been reinstated without even a hint of debate. No more middle-of-the-night sightings of children hovering inches from our faces would be tolerated, nor would we be forced to share our bed with those impish creatures who wriggle and writhe about, forever wedging their icy feet and hands somewhere that used to be warm."

"The sweet scent of his cologne, as I leaned in to kiss him one last time, still lingered in the corners of my mind. The haunting memory of his pale hands, cold and lifeless under the warmth of mine, was as fresh as the marmalade skies last evening—only more indelibly cemented. Thoughts of standing there next to his rose-draped casket and running my hand along its silky oak finish—as if my touch could protect him and keep him near me forever—were still too vivid and too painful to believe something good would ever be a byproduct. The hollow clang of the church bell, singing its sorrowful song, rang ever clear in my ears as did the soloist’s heartfelt rendition of Our Father. I knew then and there that life would never be the same, so to listen to everyone’s spiel on how this would eventually turn into something good seemed to me an asinine thing to do."

"I cannot tell a lie. My youngest children are hotel junkies—hopelessly addicted to all that urchins deem important in this universe; service with a smile, a license to gallivant freely about the place and the deed to vast and uncharted lands—or to as much Best Western real estate as money can buy for a night or two. My oldest was the same way when she was little—completely mesmerized by the whole experience; from the sinister yet strangely alluring monster that lurked down the hallway (i.e. the ice machine) to the fascinatingly unique 'instant inferno' light switch in the bathroom. Perfect for hatchlings, I suppose. Or half-baked children."

"The truth is…said hapless 30-pound-ish child fell into the toilet—leading the way with her derrière, rubbery feet and arms flopping and flailing about in the air, resembling the tentacles of a rather peculiar-looking sea creature. Instantly I felt the pang of helplessness and the sudden urge to grab and yank whatever appendage I could manage to solidly grip. It was as if I had made some kind of warped sacrifice to the Porcelain God. 'Good grief! What kind of mother am I anyway?!!' I shrieked to myself. 'And what, pray tell, is my other smallish child doing at this moment? Dangling from the window ledge, perhaps?! Or manically wedging plastic dinosaurs into the electrical outlets?!' I could expect as much."

"That was where we planted ourselves for the duration—in tired old lawn chairs, wrapped from head to toe in damp beach towels, our tanned knees tucked under our chins, savoring every simultaneous crack of thunder and lightning—inebriated by the scent of rain that surrounded us and by the deafening chorus of raindrops, bouncing high and hard off the steamy asphalt."

"...I couldn’t help but be reminded of my own youth—of summers spent peering through the clouded glass of a Hellmann’s jar, its lid riddled with holes I had punched with Dad’s screwdriver. Of course, it didn’t matter much what was inside. Crickets and caterpillars. Frogs and fireflies. Toads and tadpoles. They were living, breathing collectibles—quite unlike my beloved rocks squirreled away in a shoebox under my bed, or the hodgepodge of prized baseball cards bound together with rubber bands."

"I tousle their hair, study their tender hands, now supple and yielding as they lay in mine, and soak up the trace of lavender bubble bath, lingering in those sun-streaked locks. Our breaths mingle intimately as I draw nearer to steal yet another good-night kiss, awed by the peace washed over their faces and rugged little bodies. Even their pea-shaped toes are finally at rest, tucked snugly under their bottoms which rise and fall with each restorative breath."

"He was cultured and artsy and by all accounts, sophisticated—not at all like the dweebs who hung out with their calculators and the swine who were emotionally attached to their precious Camaros and Firebirds."

"Remember: Behind nearly every natty man is the woman who dressed him."

"Basically what follows is that I lift and cumbersomely position each miniature duffer behind their ball—as if they were enormous chess pieces or unyielding wedges of granite—then we swing the club together with the adeptness and grace of a walrus. Okay, a one-armed walrus with a nasty slice."

"Another respite of course was to get out of town. To the lake, where my aunt and uncle owned a cottage, a motor boat and a flotilla of inner tubes. To my grandparents’ farm, where there were tractors and hay wagons galore—breezing through town and over the fields, with the sun on our shoulders and the wind in our hair."

"But I can’t help myself. I’m like an advice factory once I slip, ever so reluctantly, into the role of passenger. And with a teen at the helm I’m a basket case besides, routinely shoving my feet through the floorboards and gripping the seat at every turn, white knuckles gleaming and teeth clenched—bracing for the crash that I am convinced is imminent."

"...but because I am a control freak. Plain and simple. For as long as I can remember, I have been tormented by an inexplicable desire to manipulate my environment. To order my world. To tidy my universe. To neatly tuck the wayward pieces of my life inside boxes with pretty little labels, molding and arranging them to fit as if they were governable entities. Or sweat socks."

"Getting away from it all never felt so right—or so deliciously liberating—especially during the laze and haze of summer, just before the frenzied pace of Autumn encroaches. Soon it’ll be back to work and school for most of us. Back to the grind. Back to routine. Back to the rigors of responsibility."

"Our Godzilla-sized heaps of things-that-used-to-serve-a-viable-purpose-here have grown unmanageable, unsightly and ridiculously cumbersome of late. In short, I’m tired of looking at…finding space for…and TRIPPING over that mismatched hodgepodge of obsolescence left to rot in our basement, garage and attic—the gravesites for stuff we no longer use but can’t bear to part with. It’s a circus really. A ludicrous revolving door act that plays over and over again with no end in sight. I haul the old junk up, and cart the not-so-old junk down—ad nauseaum. Otherwise, our living room would be roughly one playpen and two bouncy chairs short of Toys ‘R Us or perhaps a sea, teeming with Barbie paraphernalia and Happy Meal toys, circa 1989 through the present."

"Quite conceivably though, I cling to what is and what was because they’ll be the last to leave the nest—marching merrily forward on that infamous quest for knowledge and independence, lunch boxes in hand, bus numbers memorized, sponge-like minds ready and willing to soak up all there is to know and then some. Aaah, the unwavering exuberance of youth. Ready or not however, that big yellow beast of a thing will soon come lumbering up the hill and around the bend, its tired engine groaning all the way to our stop. It’ll then whisk my beloved cherubs away to the Land of Kindergarten—the place where they’ve longed to be ever since they laid eyes on the cool monkey bars and the '…toilet that’s just our size!' At least two somebodies I know are eager for the transition."

"I have an apology to make. For the better part of the past five years I have subjected countless individuals to my incessant and intolerable blathering—i.e. the meaningless drivel I positively exude whenever I successfully locate and corral a captive audience. Note to self: A captive audience is not necessarily one that is captivated. Plumbers, carpenters, drywall experts, pest control people and even pizza delivery guys. Poor fools. Every last one of them. Most have come to my home of their own volition, logically thinking that I’d go about my business so that they could go about theirs in a timely fashion. Little did they know I’d talk till the cows came home—a chatty Cathy on a mission to discuss everything from foreign policy to Pluto’s current planetary status. I’m not quite sure how my husband ever managed to survive the daily barrage. The flurry of words I dumped on him when he arrived home from work was more like a deranged filibuster than any run of the mill honey-you’ll-never-believe-what-your-children-did-today spiel."

"I watch the clock more than I’d care to admit, flip through the television channels pausing wistfully on their favorite programs and wonder what they’re doing at noon and at one o’clock and again at two-thirty. Okay, I wonder what my little urchins are doing from the instant the bus rounds the bend and fades from view in the morning until it reappears in the afternoon with dozens of tiny faces pressed against the glass, wordlessly revealing what the day had brought to each and every rider."

"There’s nothing quite like guilt to drive home that glorious I’m-a-failure-in-the-eyes-of-my-child feeling we all know and love."

"Reassure ashen-faced children that you haven’t killed their pretty new kitty and instruct them not to repeat the words Mommy shouldn’t have said—no matter how exciting that might be during Show and Tell."

"If I could have dissolved into the floor or crawled under someone’s shoe at that very moment, I would have. Once again, I was utterly stunned and completely mortified by those pitiful words—words that seemingly flow without effort or end from that wretched little remark factory, otherwise known as my child."

"Upon surviving the pandemonium outside, it’s on to the shopper’s circus where I toss my cherubs into one of those charming carts with rickety wheels, a drool-covered handle and a child-restraint strap so filthy its original color cannot be detected. You know the one. Of course, I choose it because it’s the best of the bunch."

"I for one positively despise the bulletins that broadcast to the world how wonderful it is that this, that and the other thing happened to little Johnny this past year. Quite frankly, I don’t want to hear about how perfect your world is. It’s boring. With a capital B. Give me the dirt instead. The real deal. The muck in the middle that makes you crazy, but at the same time keeps you humble and grounded and very likely, human."

"It’s those candid shots—taken on Christmas morning in our pajamas and tousled hair—that have forever held a special place in my heart, clearly revealing that a warm and cozy sort of chaos exists here."

"My refrigerator is the center of my universe, the heart and soul of my very being and without question, the hub of all that defines my world. Not because of the mince pie, Jack cheese and leftover potato salad contained within. But because of the Almighty Calendar that hangs on its shiny surface—eye-level, next to the school lunch menu, surrounded by tiny scraps of paper upon which I scrawled phone numbers I need to know but will never remember."

"...there is little that could be even remotely construed as regular housework in this zany place. Things get cleaned for four basic reasons around here—either something gets broken, something gets spilled, something gets moved or someone announces they’ll be visiting in the not too distant future. That’s it. Period. End of story. There is no glorified Vacuum Day. No specified time to dust exists. No tackle-the-fridge or straighten-the-closets blurb can be found on my agenda in any given week. Nor is there an official schedule for scrubbing windows or toilets. They get cleaned when they reach the pitiful stage and not a moment before. "

"...expecting a motley crew of nose-miners to understand the overall point of a particular sport—as well as to perform as a cohesive unit for what seems an eternity—is like asking a dish full of Skittles to get back in the bag."

"Oddly enough, it took one of my youngest children to open my eyes yet again to the notion of seeing the glass as half full—as opposed to shattered at my feet in a pool of despair, never mind half empty."

(Re: School cancellation topic) "Anxiously I await—squinting like crazy to read the crawler as it inches across my television screen, hoping and praying for official validation of what Mr. Monotone hath stated; for it would mean no alarm clock for me…no stumbling and fumbling around in the darkness to rouse the tired and the unwilling…no wrestling with the natives to button, tie and snap…no breakfast table fracases or tooth-brushing battles…no heated debates over attire, homework or disheveled manes…no hurry-up-with-those-Cheerios-or-you’ll-be-late dissertations…no dodging the dog poop on the walk to the bus stop."

"A delay on the other hand is nothing but a heap of swill shrouded by all-that-appears-truly-marvelous-on-the-surface. It’s a tease. A mere taste of the real deal. A cruel and shameful ruse designed to frustrate and dishearten. I blame the weatherman—or the weatherperson, more correctly. For whatever reason, the glorified shtick they deliver with great drama and flair regarding the snow and whatnot always leaves me with the ridiculous notion that an extra two hours in the morning somehow extrapolates into an endless vat of time—roughly equivalent to the duration of the Paleozoic Era."

"By the time I outfit my five-year-old twins with the recommended 67 layers of clothing, fill my pockets with Kleenexes and Cheerios, visit the bathroom sixteen times and then dress like an Eskimo myself, I’m spent. Forget frolicking in the snow; I’m ready for a nap."

"As the seething child standing before me continued to stomp and shriek and writhe about the place in an absolute fit of rage and frustration, I maintained both my innocence and ignorance right up to the bitter end—when she violently thrust an arm in the direction of the refrigerator, as if my sinful offense should be painfully obvious to me if not to the entire world. 'It’s my MAG-A-NETS (pronounced with, of course, three syllables)!! You MOOOVED them, Mommy!! How could you?!!' she growled from the very core of her being. 'How could you DO such an evil thing?!!'"

"Real American Heeeeeeeeeroooooooooes! Mrs. Perfect-Bologna-and-Cheese-Sandwich-Maaaaaakerrrrrr! You’ve got what it takes, oh Connoisseur of Cold Cuts, to keep the French’s from oozing out those pesky little pores in the bread…and that’s what makes you special. You take your sandwich-crafting career seriously…and it shows. Those all-important layers of real beef bologna and American cheese are stacked just right…thanks to you. What’s more, you’ll always make time for folding it over with great precision and care, ensuring all whom you serve that your masterpiece will never ever be drippy. And that’s why you’ll be forevermore a real American hero."

"We even had to run the vacuum cleaner once as a direct result of this silly exercise—because a certain someone decided it was more exciting to count boxes of cereal while the Lazy Susan was spinning slightly faster than the earth. She soon discovered that makes the little pouches of oatmeal fly out of the box where they become wedged between the cupboard and the shelf that spins—resulting in an explosive confetti-like shower."

"Fearlessly I tackle those darkened corners and hidden pockets of obsolescence, where the light of day rarely shines and the dust bunnies roam wild and free. It is inevitable that I must face and conquer the pitiful reality which I alone created and subsequently nurtured for months on end. Confession: I stuffed those stupid shelves with everything from non-perishable (yeah right) food-ish type items that we received as gifts but never intended to consume to the kids’ leftover sugary spoils from the past five (yes FIVE!) treat-bearing holidays and school events—complete with signed valentines, pumpkin-shaped pretzels and headless chocolate bunnies nestled snugly inside Ziploc bags. Yesterday’s treasure. Today’s trash."

"My theory: A muffled expletive is better than one that will be articulated perfectly at Show & Tell."

"Well, Spring has long since sprung and love is officially in the air. I know this to be true because roughly every 43 seconds or so I receive yet another blurb about a love struck fool who just got engaged, who is about to get engaged or who has fallen so madly and deeply in love that he or she can’t see straight—let alone tolerate another minute without driving to Sears to pick out a shiny, new toaster with Mister or Miss Right. Gak. Spare me the syrupy details. It’s nauseating. Like an overdose of Aunt Jemima. Or Hungry Jack. I honestly wish the sappy nitwits in question would just ditch their silly blinders, at least momentarily, so that they might snap out of that besotted delirium to examine the truth. To step back from the drunken whirlwind of passion and crazed adoration to view reality if only for an instant. To recognize the fact that one’s logic may be on hiatus at this critical juncture in life. To wake up and smell the idiocy looming just around the bend."

"Never in my wildest dreams would I have imagined uttering something like, 'Yes, Honey, if you get the shot I’ll buy you a Bratz doll thingy with a gigantic head for slathering on make-up and whatnot with a trowel.' But I did say it. And I meant it. And I fully intended to purchase said sleazy-looking monstrosity if it meant my child—the one wrought with fear over having witnessed her sister’s plight—would allow the nice lady with the Band-aids and the cache of stickers to give her the stupid shot already."

"Oddly enough, it’s the buzzing that bothers me most as the winged beasts (i.e. flying Raisinettes) ricochet here and there in a panic, pausing only to rest and to resonate in the presumed safety of corners to the annoyance of all. I especially abhor the characteristic hum of those big, hairy boxcar types—the Airbus of house flies. The sort that spits and sputters like an overburdened engine gasping for life, careening toward the earth at an alarming rate, preparing to crash and burn—or to plaster my windows yet again. But it’s the maddening drone in the air that I dread most. "

"For years now, I have been both fascinated and disturbed by the passage of time. Quite frankly, I struggle with wrapping my mind around anything that in theory is constant, like the ebb and flow of the tides, yet in practice appears to be consumed more ravenously with age. I’ve been convinced of said phenomenon since I was about 10. It was then I first realized that my summers were, in fact, growing shorter with each passing year. And it wasn’t just my sun-drenched summers that were shrinking; the entire neighborhood was adversely affected. My Converse-wearing, football-toting cohorts and I faced the awful truth and lamented our collective plight within the confines of our hideaways—tucked in and among the tangled woods and hedgerows we shared. It was there our secrets were safe and our youth, secure. As each August waned, the clubhouse walls heard the same irony in our voices: we were eager and excited for the coming school year with its freshly sharpened pencils, shiny lunchboxes and newly assigned desks, yet we mourned the departure of summer, as if we had lost something dear. And we had."

"Sometimes I feel as though I must have fallen into a time warp somewhere along this uncertain path of parenthood because I simply cannot fathom the absurdity that my firstborn will soon be 20. Where did that little girl go? She was here only moments before, skipping rope on the sidewalk and cruising around the place with her tattered dolls and little yellow grocery cart teeming with a hodgepodge of plastic wares. Apparently, I should have reached for the pause button more often than not—to linger within her world instead of bemoaning my situation and wishing the time away."

"How incomprehensibly distorted our view becomes—because when we’re in the thick of rearing children and adolescents day in and day out, it seems never-ending and as if the monstrosity of parenthood itself will claim our very souls and sanity before it’s through."

"No longer will I look at a rack of insanely discounted apparel and feel the need to devour it, stuffing armload upon armload of garmentage-I’ll-never-use-but-God-this-is-cheap into my cart like a maniac. Nor will I be inclined to haul my brood to 17 different stores in search of the perfect (fill in the blank with an infinite array of gotta-have-it items for the first day of school or I’ll die), pausing only to refuel, to wade through the carnage in the aisles and to visit the loo roughly 600 times in a period of 10 hours. Nope, we’re done with that foolishness. The gods have smiled upon me and my heart is glad."

"At one point, I felt hopelessly bound within a Dr. Seuss nightmare. Thing 1 and Thing 2 ostensibly found fault with everything lunchboxish and were virtually incapable of making a decision. (So much for the eenie-meenie-miney-mo method). I do not like them, Sam-I-am! Not one will suit my bread and jam. I do not like them with a fox. For lunch, I need a pinkish box. I do not like this stupid pouch. Stop rushing me; I’m not a grouch! I would not could not on this shelf. I want to pick one by myself. I do not like them in this store! Take me, take me where there are more!"

""Five stores and two meltdowns later, we were still deeply immersed in the absurdity our day’s undertaking had become. I seriously toyed with the idea of offering a pony to the first child who suggested that brown-bagging it was suddenly cool."

"Perhaps the most rewarding form of mail I receive, though, doesn’t get stuffed in the mailbox. It’s those carefully crafted notes my kids scrawl here, there and everywhere—the priceless fragments of speech they cared enough about to share with me—one phonetically correct syllable at a time. More often than not, they’re sealed with a kiss and hand delivered—or pasted somewhere sure to be noticed. 'Ples giv me som difrit food, Mom,' was one of many keeper notes that came home from school last year in a snack bag. Apparently my selections weren’t up to snuff. The point was well taken. I also get lots of 'I love you' notes or 'I heart you, Mommy,' with a little heart scribbled in the center. And although my world is crammed to capacity with prized artwork, kid creations of every size and shape and those invaluable little nuggets of wordage (from my cluttered work space to the top of my sock drawer), I’ll never tire of receiving them and there will always be room for more."

"But a funny thing happened on the way to October. As I trekked that familiar path, I discovered something quite remarkable—there is bitter amidst the sweet. Indeed, I am torn between feelings of sheer joy and elation over my newly bestowed chunk of non-mommy time and abject woe over the realization that I miss my kids beyond all words and understanding. There. I said it. I’m a guilt-ridden, mawkish piece of milquetoast who ought to remind herself of the times her children drove her to the brink of lunacy and despair—one gray hair at a time."

"But success is relative. I consider it a major accomplishment that most of the people living under this roof have matching socks each day. Better still, they’re clean matching socks. Never mind that our garage is roughly three sleds, two bicycles and a kiddie pool away from being a home for wayward toys. Our socks match. Mostly."

"Not surprisingly, my kids deem all things achievable when dreaming big, especially as it relates to something career-ish. Nothing is out of the realm of possibility. No obstacle insurmountable. No amount of passion, too great. So I draw near and listen hard to what each heart whispers, mindful not to quash that which is held sacred and dear. If nothing else, “Be happy,” is the message I hope to impart, even though my logical, left-brained self screams in protest." 

"'I want to be a mommy, a teacher, a worm caretaker and a bumblebee. A dinosaur fossil digger-upper, a scientist, a bird catcher and a tree.' I’ve heard them all, I think, sprinkled like the warmth of summer’s rain over our daily conversations as my children have grown into people, only smaller and less inhibited. It’s all I can do, however, to keep up with the latest and greatest ambition-related buzz. Plans change with the wind. And there’s no telling what sort of calling will strike their collective fancy next."

"I’ve often thought that the art of raising children is a lot like carving a pumpkin. In both instances, I brought home a rotund little bundle of neediness, fumbling and stumbling over myself just to get it out of the car and safely inside. I then set it down, took a step back and stared—marveling at its inherent uniqueness and at its wealth of complexities, most of which I had yet to discover."

"I’m not especially sure that I was meant for mothering—with all its rigors and responsibilities, and those insufferable shades of gray. Simply put, I’m just not wired for it. I much preferred being able to place chunks of my life into neat little boxes, where I could tend to them separately and manage my world at will."

"Thanksgiving won’t be the same this year. Not without my mother-in-law who passed in May. She made the best potato filling on the planet. Bar none. Now it’s my turn. My turn to try and fill the house with the most glorious aroma known to man—a mouthwatering mélange of onions, parsley, butter and of course, potato-y goodness. It’s my job to recreate what that Dutch-y dish represented—the warmth and flavor that defined home at Thanksgiving—first for my husband and his sister, and subsequently for me, when I officially joined the family nearly 11 years ago."

"Of course, all the experts will tell you that food isn’t love, and people certainly cannot draw more than mere sustenance from a meal. Nor can their souls be nourished by the almighty spoonful. Apparently the experts never met a woman like my mother-in-law."

"As I write this, the promise that Christmas Day holds for my family has yet to be realized. The halls are decked and our stockings now hang—empty, yet pregnant with hope. The mistletoe waits patiently, as does the tree, aglow with the holiday spirit of all who helped trim it. The doors open wide to welcome family and friends who will soon come to call. Notes to Santa have been carefully crafted, plans for preparing his feast of sugary treats have been finalized and last minute wishes have been whispered ever-so-earnestly in his ear."

"I can only imagine the warmth I’ll feel come Christmas morning. Or during Holy Communion the night before, moved by the wonderment and intimacy surrounding the event. Like every other year in the days leading up to the 25^th, I am still deeply immersed in this tide of tides, wrapped up in all that the season embodies—hope, remembrance and the spirit of unconditional giving. As you read this, that special day has already passed. The time has since come and gone. But hopefully some semblance of the warmth lingers—like that of a sun baked stone, long after the shadows of evening have consumed it."

"Everyone knows that McDonald’s isn’t the ideal place to change clothes. Nor is it wise to instruct ungainly children to do so there—demanding from them a degree of perfection that is at best, unachievable. But there I was—parading my little waifs through the joint like some transient-sorry-excuse-for-a-mother, en route to the bathroom to supervise (oh-so-incompetently) the changing-out-of-pajamas-and-into-real-clothes gig."

"Not many of us in this household (myself included) actually wanted a pooch. But now that we have officially joined the ranks of “dog people,” we’re slowly warming to the notion, completely in love with his smallish bark and his I’m-a-big-ferocious-dog growl which surfaces whenever he wrestles a sock into submission."

"Chief among the reasons for this unlikely development: Jack is so stinking adorable that it is beyond comprehension—almost to the point of edibleness. In a word, he’s a quart-sized ball of cottony fluff that I am physically incapable of leaving alone. Nor can I resist the urge to coo to him like a new mother, convinced that her wriggling infant can actually understand the deluge of gibberish that spills from her unremittingly. Yes, I talk to the damn dog. As if he were a sweet, sweet baby. We discuss happenings in this house, the goings and comings of its inhabitants, the gnaw-worthiness of his toys, the fleeciness of his blankie, the futility of nursing cats, assorted political hokum and, of course, poop."

"For a time, my husband and I were able to keep their conduct and boundless enthusiasm in check (which is all but impossible during that horrendous after-school-and-before-dinnertime decompression phase I’ve grown to know and loathe). Ultimately, however, they seized the opportunity laid before them, knowing full well we wouldn’t beat them senseless for their many and varied transgressions—at least not in front of the real estate agent."

"There was something marvelously alluring, indeed almost magical, about the air of mystery surrounding the customary trading-of-valentines thing. Maybe it was the not-knowing aspect with which I was most enamored. I loved that wild-with-anticipation feeling as I thumbed through my cache of tiny envelopes and heart-shaped lollipops, cleverly skewered through cards I would soon ogle."

"In all honesty, the first few days off from school with my children were wonderful—a welcome reprieve from our harried morning schedule. There were little or no discussions surrounding the topic of dawdling. No ogre-ish threats were made involving the consequences of missing the bus. No battles over the wearing of undershirts took center stage '…because I hate undershirts, Mommy!' No one even checked to see if teeth or hair had been brushed, or that pajamas had been removed and subsequently replaced with suitable attire. Nor did anyone care. School was closed for the day and the gift of time—a sacred offering from the snow gods—had been bestowed upon us all. Liberated for one calendar day."

"My mother warned me there’d be days like this—days during which I’d rather swallow a cheese grater than raise children. Times when I’d seriously toy with the notion of running away from it all, forsaking those who depend on me to scrub grass stains, to scribble sappy little lunchbox notes and to be the voice of reason for my woman-child/co-ed. There would be an abundance of woeful moments, too (she assured me), when I’d bury my miserable self in the deepest, darkest recesses of a closet in hopes that no one, least of all my needy charges, would ever find me in such a sorry state—desperately clinging to my last marble. Those unbearable chunks of ugliness, Mom promised, would be sandwiched in-between chapters of sheer joy and passages of tolerable madness—but they’d be there just the same. Shame on me for not believing her."

"For what seemed an eternity, tsunami-sized waves of nausea crashed over me unrelentingly. At one point, I distinctly recall wanting to be put out of my misery. Like a horse with a bad leg. 'Just shoot me already!' I groused to no one. Because, of course, no one else was lying on the bathroom floor at 3 a.m. in a pool of self-pity gazing at the underbelly of the loo and wondering when the urge to retch would strike again. If nothing else, having such a vantage point reminded me that my bathroom needed cleaning. Desperately."

"My function: to plant myself there at the end of the leash like a dutiful dolt until he is completely satisfied with having sniffed-to-death whatever it was that piqued his interest in the first place, feigning both patience and understanding. Further, as his loyal companion I must tolerate his sinfully erratic movements and delusions of grandeur that center around an unwavering belief that he is a draft horse on a mission to haul me into a neighboring county."

"Time and again he has regaled me with story after story, highlighting the winters of his youth. There have been tales of sledding down city streets on which traffic had been blocked specifically for that purpose, detailed accounts of wading through mountains of fresh powder on his paper route and, of course, delicious memories of the most glorious sound a kid could ever hear on a school morning—the distant and muffled scrapings and rumblings of a snow plow carving its way through town."

"I then spent roughly two light-years devising what I believed would be the treasure-hunt-to-end-all-treasure-hunts, complete with catchy little rhymes, a bevy of thought-provoking clues and a clever ploy for getting even the ditziest of participants to work as a team instead of the warring factions they would likely become. Silly me. The pitiful thing was over in less than 12 minutes with little or no fanfare—aside from the rapture the girls exuded while tearing from one post to the next, all the while waving their arms wildly overhead and screaming like a bunch of banshees. Blissfully, I might add. The treasure itself was apparently less than impressive, producing a collectively unenthused look of, “Eh, is that it?” Next time, everyone will get a pony."

"But when it came time for the slumber component of the slumber party, no one was particularly interested. Except the adults. So into the wee hours of the morning we journeyed, our voices adrift over a tangle of sleeping bags, pillows and smallish bodies that refused to be still. 'Mrs. Wentzel, I can’t sleep. I’m not even tired yet.' 'So-and-so’s sleeping bag is in my space, can you make her move it?' 'I’m thirsty…I’m hungry…I have to pee…again….'"

"Needless to say, at this point in the discussion I fell silent, both stunned and disturbed by the information I had been given and indescribably mortified by its implications. I mean, what do you say to a child who has admitted to having tasted a shoe?! Much less, the INSIDE of a shoe?! I’ve got nothing for that. Zilch. No pat little responses exist in my repertoire of snappy parental comebacks for such an inane remark."

"'You know, Mom. She neeeeeeeeds you. Plus she said the toilet might overflow.'"

"Of course my mind played worst case scenario (as it does so capably), racing forward to the hideous spectacle we’d become should such a foul catastrophe actually occur. I pictured the crowd, agape and aghast, their satiny napkins clutched in horror, silverware and China clinking and clanking as patrons pushed and shoved to escape the river of repulsiveness snaking its way across the floor where we dined."

"Needless to say, dysfunction doesn’t fall far from our family tree. Eccentricity flourishes under this roof and there is barely a day without someone hoarding something that ought not to."

"Case in point (as I tucked one of my cherubs into bed recently): 'I’m afraid you probably won’t be going to school tomorrow, Hon. Not with that fever.' A pall then fell over her face—as if I had announced the sun didn’t like us anymore, so it would be moving to another galaxy, ending life as we know it. 'But we’re having chicken nuggets for lunch tomorrow, Mommy,' a tiny voice whimpered from beneath the covers, the hovel where she shivered and shook thanks to that wretched sister-to-malaria she had undoubtedly contracted. 'Nuggets?' I thought to myself, completely baffled by the inane notion that a piece of poultry could wield such power—enough to inspire a sickish child to drag her sorry self to school."

"In reality, Jack is a creampuff. A stinking creampuff that barks at his own shadow, bobbing and weaving to and fro—thoroughly convinced that he can somehow fake it out or swallow it whole. Then again, he’s foolish enough to yap at dogs ten times his size. Dogs that could have him for lunch. Dogs that have cohunes the size of cantaloupes."

"'Mommy, can I wear my new Crocs to school tomorrow?! Pleasepleasepleaseplease!? CanIcanIcanIcanI?!' I paused briefly to contemplate the hell I’d surely pay if and when I denied her request. Like a fool, I decided it was worth the wrath I’d suffer at the hands of a seven-year-old obsessed with Croc-O-Mania. 'No, Hon. I’m sorry. Your aunt and uncle were kind enough to give them to you and they’re adorable. Really, they are. But they just don’t fit you well enough. Not for school. You’re swimming in the stupid things.' Read: they’re big and sloppy and your feet look as if they’ve been shoved inside Kleenex boxes—Pepto-Bismol-hued Kleenex boxes festooned with functionless air holes, more specifically. 'And besides, you’ll fall down on the playground and knock your teeth right through your lip (banking on the graphic visual to drive home my point).'"

"I can’t put a price on the deluge of desperate phone calls I made to my mom as I clumsily managed motherhood for the first time—stressing obsessively over every little and not-so-little thing, like a blackened umbilical cord dangling by a sinewy thread. 'What have I done wrong?! Is that SUPPOSED to happen?! And why, oh why, won’t she stop crying…sleep through the night…smile on cue…and somehow TELL ME WHAT SHE WANTS?! And what’s with the mustard-y poops and the geysers of spit up and the white bump-ish things on her nose and the crusty stuff on her head and the tiny red spots she’s peppered with?! (Furthermore…) I can’t figure out the car seat straps…I can’t get rid of the bags under my eyes…my shirt gets soaked whenever she (or any other bundle of neediness) cries…my diaper bag is big and bulky and already I’m sick of hauling it around…I feel fat and frumpy and about as interesting as dirt…I can’t find time for a shower…a sandwich…a decent nap…or even three minutes to flip through a stupid parenting magazine—which, by the way, does nothing more than make me feel like a complete failure—I can’t even RELATE to the perfect little world they live in…oh, and the baby choked on a cracker this morning…fell out of her crib…rolled off the bed…licked the cat’s tail (and so on)…. I’m sure I’ve ruined this child FOR-EVER!!!'"

"Mom, sage and savior that she is, must have sensed the panic in my voice and so with each little (and not-so-little) catastrophe I presented, she spoke clearly and calmly, guiding me through the storm, filling me with the sense that I could do this and that the world really wasn’t crashing down all around me. 'Things will get easier,' she promised, and I would be a good mom—despite myself."

"For a time, anyway, the din subsides and the circus all but leaves town, affording me the opportunity to reclaim my sanity. Mom probably relished much the same as I trekked off into the woods, The Secret Garden or something Mark Twain-ish firmly tucked under an arm. Although, truly, it drives me berserk to try and communicate with creatures so consumed by a piece of literature it’s obscene. Needless to say, in those instances I feel the compelling urge to shriek, 'Snap out of it, you little dweebs! Don’t you know there are cats to torment and mud pies to bake?!' I could tell them their hair was on fire and they wouldn’t care. That ponies await them in the yard. That baths would be banished forevermore and pillow fights would reign supreme if only they would humor me by mouthing a response to any one of my infinitely insignificant questions."

"Still, I get nothing. Nothing that even remotely resembles a suitable reply. Instead, I am shushed, and scolded and ordered back into the hole from whence I came. 'Mom, can’t you see I’m trying to READ?! I can’t concentrate with all that talking you’re doing.' By all accounts, I have become an annoyance to my children. I’m the mosquito in their ear. The rain on their parade. The pebble in their beloved Crocs. The pit in their peach."

"Since the dawn of time my wily rock-picker-uppers have worshiped and glorified all-that-is-igneous-or-sedimentary in nature, hunting and gathering everything from wee grains of sandstone in the Deep South to massive hunks of granite in the Adirondacks. No matter where our travels have taken us, stony mementos have followed—into our pockets, into our cars, into our lives, ad nauseam. Eternally, it seems, we’ve griped about the gravel. We’ve sighed over the shale. We’ve protested the pea-sized pebbles lurking about. Our rock-strewn garage floor is no exception."

"Craggy, old fossils and sleek-looking skippers alike adorn the tops of dressers and fill boxes and buckets galore, pervading the nooks and crannies of our insanely cluttered existence. Each of those ageless treasures apparently possessed a certain charm and appeal, even before being plucked so abruptly from its hollow in the dirt. Each begged to be adopted. Each extolled its many virtues, functionality and versatility chief among them (i.e. 'I’m quiet and I’d make a great paperweight!'). Like fools, my husband and I fed the obsession, allowing said prized pearls to be hauled home—to be loved and nurtured as part of the family—to forever festoon my windowsills—to live beneath my every footfall. Grok!"

"Then there was the cardinal sin I committed just last month when I insisted the toad must go. The toad who lived on my coffee table for three days running, who drove me completely berserk with his relentless pawing and clawing of the wretched cage-like home to which he had been so unwillingly assigned. The toad who had been worshiped and glorified for his many talents (being warty, for one). The fist-sized blob of repugnance whom my little girls felt compelled to kiss and cuddle (till I became visibly ill—Gak!) during a teary-eyed and interminable farewell which will live in my guilt-ridden soul forever and ever. Amen."

"As a parent, my popularity also waned the day I refused to let my charges wear their Crocs to Knoebel’s. Naturally, they grumbled and groused each time we happened upon a kid wearing those stupid shoes—the ones that ought to come with a box of Band-aids and a waiver. Waiting in line for the bumper cars, spinning around in those monstrous tea cups, crammed and jammed impossibly inside a bevy of bathroom stalls—where our worm’s-eye view spoke volumes. 'See, that kid’s Mommy let her wear Crocs.' Everywhere, it seemed, I was reminded of what a horrible mother I was."

"I much prefer gathering my wily charges in from the great outdoors long after the brilliant clouds of pink, orange and crimson have faded to plum, gray and eventually an inky blue-black. There is much to relish between dusk and darkness, when the moon hangs clear and bright, begging to be plucked from the sky and the stars greet the earth one by one, gradually painting the heavens with a milky glow."

"At once, the night air is filled with a symphony of crickets, peepers and barefoot children whacking at waffle balls, racing and chasing each other through the cool grass, already laden with dew. Shouts of “Marco…Polo! Marco…Polo!” emanate endlessly from the pool next door along with the muffled thwunks of cannonballs, instantly taking me back to my own youth—the one where Frisbees were thrown until no one could see, where nails were hammered in forts till the woods grew thick with darkness and alive with mosquitoes, where Kool-aid flowed freely, the pool beckoned and the rules for tag were rewritten more than once."

"And all was well—much like this good night. Fireflies are everywhere now, hugging the trees and the darkest spots in the lawn, blinking here…and a moment later, there—signaling would-be mates and captivating all who give chase with Hellmann’s jars in hand. Add the crackle of a campfire, the sweet aroma of toasted marshmallows and the thrill of eavesdropping on children in the midst of any number of conversations and I’m perfectly content. It pains me to put an end to their fun. To rain on their parade. To say goodnight to the Big Dipper and to their constant companions—the lightening bugs. Naturally, my popularity wanes. Sleep, they must. But in the end, all is forgiven. Tomorrow is a new day. And there will be more Augusts to savor and a lifetime of moments to give pause."

"I want to crawl under a rock when I imagine the pall that will undoubtedly be cast over their teachers upon learning that my dear children are more than just a little familiar with Jeff Dunham’s stand-up routine and the irreverent crew of puppet people he brings to life on stage. Or that I once laundered 74 pairs of underpants in one day (we counted). Or that all who reside under my roof believe that ketchup is an actual food group and Bruster’s ice cream, the nectar of the gods—qualifying as a legitimate meal in all 50 states. Or that my heathens pay homage each night to Walter, the Farting Dog, an inflatable replica of a beloved fictional character, now suspended from their bedroom ceiling, compliments of Betsy at Otto’s Bookstore. Or that I’ve fed my brood dinner in the bathtub more than once—to compensate for my less-than-stellar (read: abysmal) performance in the getting-to-bed-on-time arena."

"I abhor school fundraisers for a myriad of reasons. They breed legions of kids who then become a little too cozy (okay, downright brazen) with the notion of ringing doorbells and asking for hand-outs. They tax parents unmercifully, assigning them the dreaded duty of parading their brood around the neighborhood like a bunch of giddified vacuum-sellers-in-training and on top of that, require them to sift through mountains of loot, counting and recounting, so that every last nickel, dime and penny harvested is accounted for. Lord, I hate the smell of coins."

"Indeed, the Nanny would be disturbed if not completely horrified. And because I recognize the magnitude of my deplorableness, I can easily envision her disapproving glare. The way she’d scowl and shake her head at me, tsk tsk tsk-ing me to death. Like a merciless taskmaster, she’d stand amidst my chaos and clutter with a big, fat marker in hand, fervently filling an enormous white board with bold and bountiful solutions for dealing with the disorder and mismanagement that together permeate my world. It’s likely that a complete overhaul of my parenting skills and system (or lack thereof) would be recommended if not demanded, necessitating the summoning of nanny reinforcements. Legions of them, quite possibly."

"Naturally, we’d invite them all in for imaginary tea—to be served within the confines of the not-so-imaginary blanket fort now consuming my living room. The one I allowed to be constructed. The one littered with Cheez-Its. The one from which we viewed the antics of Tom & Jerry because I just couldn’t bear to listen to one more Palin rally, her Marge Gunderson-esque spiel ringing in my ears, reminiscent of that twisted yet humorous Fargo flick."

"The high schoolers sitting in the back of the bus know the awful truth, too. The ones who’ve forever peered through the clouded panes and watched me schlepping around the same silly book, The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane—a wonderful story, I’m sure; but one I’ve failed to finish reading aloud since Christmas. I planned to share this literary gem with my brood at the bus stop, where we’d sit together on the curb and devour page after page as the gray morning skies surrender to the sun. I suppose I lug it there because I’m holding out hope that somehow we’ll find time to move past Chapter Three."

"Maybe, my passion for all-things-bookish stems plainly from this: for a few delicious and utterly decadent moments, solitude is mine. The harried pace and unrelenting hustle and bustle of my child-filled world fades to black as I sink deeper and deeper into the pages of a literary gem. There, in the glorious window of stillness just before the house begins to stir, and in the quiet of night when day is done, I refuel and recondition, sipping the honeyed words of giants like Anna Quindlen, Mitch Albom and Anne Lamott."

"...books transport me beyond the realm of bickering matches and breakfast cereal dishes. Upon my return I’m refreshed, restored and genuinely grateful for having been granted a slice of time to collect my thoughts, to reflect on someone else’s or to simply dissolve into the woodwork of life. I’d like to think I emerge as a better parent, or at least as one who is less likely to go ballistic upon discovering yet another unflushed toilet or yogurt surprise."

"...books are my refuge from the torrents of parenthood, an intimate retreat from my inundated-with-Legos sort of existence and a source of pure salvation not unlike becoming one with my iPod, bathing in the sweet silence of prayer and journeying to the far shores of slumber—where the din cannot follow, the day’s tensions are erased and the unruly beasts within are stilled. Then again, chocolate is equally redeeming."

"...all the while I tried to attend meaningfully to a conversation with a certain co-ed who decided to make landfall in this crazy place at this crazy hour—a hurried conversation about borrowing a sleeping bag due to the ridiculous prospect of driving hundreds of miles to a huge city where she’s never driven, to pitch a tent in Godknowswhatforest and CAMP IN THE FREEZING COLD with a bunch of like-minded bohemians she’s never met '…because it will be an adventure, Mom, and besides, I know at least one of them and I guess I’ll get to know the rest.' Naturally, the toilet paper debate surfaced."

"And so the drama in our kitchen continued—until she had had enough of my former-resident-of-Virginia motherly advice and I had had enough of trying to deal with multiple crises of epic proportions. In retrospect, the crises themselves probably weren’t all that horrific or exceedingly unmanageable. But clustered together, into a consortium of tiny tragedies, they certainly felt genuinely oppressive—as if my world were collapsing all around me. Then the dog entered the fray (removing all doubt that my world had indeed collapsed), taking a sizeable chunk out of someone’s book—a book that belonged to the school—a book that I would ineptly try to resuscitate with massive quantities of tape and resourcefulness the next day. However, my resourcefulness met its match when I foolishly inquired as to where the rest of the gnawed upon morsels were. 'They’re in his belly, Mom.'"

"Needless to say, I felt humiliated, too, wallowing there like a child in a pool of self-pity. Victimized. Insulted. Defeated. Lord knows the god of ice and snow came and conquered that day; mocking my misfortune, applauding my hurt, exacerbating my agony, cackling uproariously—indeed, thoroughly amused by my frantic and futile attempts to flap and flail myself back to the Land of Upright. To the place where my dignity was defended, my equilibrium restored and my composure, conserved. Where surefootedness was a given and where the coefficient of friction was friend, not foe."

"As luck would have it, Jack felt compelled to unload in someone’s immaculately manicured lawn; and despite my insistence that that was not an especially good idea, the little miscreant did it anyway. I was then faced with a supreme challenge: to somehow scoop it up (with leaves that were nowhere to be found), move it across the street (careful not to drop it or the leash which was tethered to the dog, now wild with delirium over his recent doo-doo success) and fling it deep into the brush—where no one, ostensibly, would trod upon it. It was a tall order, indeed."

"Frantically I searched the vicinity for the leaves that were EVERYWHERE just days before, settling for what I could find—some pathetic-looking scraps of leafy matter with which I planned to wrap those nuggets of repulsiveness, still warm and disgustingly steamy. Of course, nothing went smoothly. The foul matter in question refused to cooperate, hideously fusing itself to the grass and failing to remain intact as I gathered and scraped in vain. Naturally, this necessitated that I shuffle across the road not once, but SEVERAL times, hunched over my stench-ridden prize as if it were the last lit candle on earth."

"All the while, my silly dog danced and pranced alongside me, hopelessly entwining my legs with the leash, thoroughly convinced that I was playing some sort of twisted version of Keep-Away. Needless to say, pieces of poo kept dropping onto the pavement behind me—a Hansel and Gretel trail of repugnance that mocked my efforts, sorely lacking though they were."

"Shopping carts are the bane of my existence. It seems I have an uncanny knack for choosing ones that are both polluted with germs (Gak!) and hideously deficient in some unforeseen manner (i.e. equipped with a smarmy, foul-smelling handle or some gunked-up, pathetic semblance of wheels that lurch and rattle and are positively driven to move me in any direction but straight)."

"...the truly vexing nature of most of the rogues I choose doesn’t become readily apparent until I’ve already journeyed halfway through the produce aisle, mindlessly fingering the fruit and considering whether we need more carrots or romaine. By then I’m committed to the match made in hell. For better or for worse. Till death do us part. Or at least until I manage to shove the misfit-of-a-cart through the checkout line or muscle it to my car where I can finally ditch it for a better life."

"In the dark of predawn I lay in bed, tucked snugly beneath my downy comforter, sleet pinging against the windowpanes in soft yet fitful waves. Against all odds associated with parenthood, no one under the age of eight burst into the room to announce that the sky was falling. So for a time, all was silent in this good house—except for the ticking of clocks and the tiny taps at the window."

"...at the close of an especially trying day in the trenches of Parentville, when I feel like the most horrible mother on earth because I dumped someone’s special potion down the drain or because I forgot to tell the yard crew not to haul away '…our eagle’s nest, Mom!' or because I screamed at them over nothing or because I failed to listen yet again—I get this amazing and completely undeserved gift in the form of a breathy secret whispered in my ear at bedtime, 'Mommy, I wouldn’t trade you for anything. Not even for a worm.'"

"...I’m that much surer it’s the little things in life that matter most. Like the twitter of songbirds after a long, hard winter. A handwritten letter amidst a sea of emails. A yellow moon on the rise. The brackish breeze, the cries of seagulls and the soothing sound of the ocean after driving forever to get there. The way my kids’ eyelashes curl and the thicket of sun-bleached hairs on the napes of their necks. The way my grandmother traced my ears to coax me to sleep. My grandfather’s firm belief that I was 'big enough' to help him feed the cows, steer the tractor and hay the fields. Clunking around a farm in real barn boots. The warm muzzle of a horse. The company of a cat. The affection of a dog. The lullaby of crickets. The tang of autumn. The whisper of pines. The crisp scent of a novel, yet to be consumed. Fresh newsprint. Thistledown. Snowflakes. The smell of rain. Holding hands."

(Topic: People Matter): "Likewise, I try not to lose sight of this all-important tenet as I churn out my column each week, taking the pulse of the community with every keystroke. And the rewards I’ve received to date have been nothing short of extraordinary. In all honesty, I am humbled by your words of praise and encouragement, moved by the personal stories that you so willingly share and thankful for the strange and wonderful gifts so many of you have bestowed upon me—the clever poems, the heartfelt emails and letters, the celebrated blue marble (because of the ever-present danger of losing my precious cache!), the greatly revered and highly inflatable Walter, the Farting Dog (for the kidlets’ bedroom ceiling, of course), the much-adored Anna Quindlen book, the wealth of advice (some of which was good), the sinfully delicious bottle of wine, the endless fodder for future articles and the sweet validation for doing what I do. And although I much prefer admiration, I remain open to criticism, as well, weaving each nugget of feedback (both brilliant and brutal) into the tapestry of my yet-to-be-created work."

"There are but two kinds of people in this world—those who brazenly read the endings of books before the endings are actually reached and those who would never dream of a crime so heinous. I myself fall with the masses into the latter category, always mindful of the tenets we must uphold: Thou shalt not spoil the endings of good books no matter how dire the circumstance or how great the temptation."

"Of course I’ve been so bold as to glance at the last page while contemplating a purchase in the aisle of a bookstore, allowing my eyes to sweep across the fuzziness of passages, to graze but not actually rest on hallowed words, erasing all hope of ever being rewarded for my ability to resist that which is sinfully alluring. If nothing else, I can be proud of that. However it wasn’t until I was deeply immersed in The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane (Chapter Seven of this scrumptious read-aloud, more specifically) that I became painfully aware of a terrible truth: my children would (and, in fact, had) flipped ahead 20 chapters in said prized piece of literature, to the very last page (gasp!) '…because I wanted to know what would happen to Edward, Mom. I was worried about him. He lives, you know.'"

"There’s nothing quite like being plagued unmercifully with an illness while the splendor of spring dances outside, taunting and teasing and souring those who fall victim—a goodly chunk of their joy deemed stolen forever. I expect such pestilence to invade my happy home in the dead of winter, wending its way through my entire brood one-by-one, sparing no one but the damned dog and a couple of self-absorbed cats. I’m prepared for the onslaught of such maladies at that juncture, armed with vaporizers and Vicks, hot water bottles and hurling buckets, multi-symptom this and meltaway that and cases upon cases of that grape-ish, sickly-sweet tonic that promises to tame sniffles, sneezes, coughs, fevers, sore throats and whatever else might ail the masses."

"There is an upside, however. A bright side to my disaster-in-the-making. For seven glorious days and nights I was assigned a role other than Homework Nazi, Nag Queen and Merriment Wrecker—whose collective mission in life is to snuff out goodness and joy at every turn. Instead, I let my soon-to-be third graders lounge in PJ’s by day and linger outside in the dusk, long after the robins had disappeared into the thicket, dark and damp with approaching nightfall. I watched them dig in the dirt, climb trees and chase each other around in the cool grass, swords held high, exultant shouts filling the air. I tossed wiffle ball after wiffle ball until we could no longer track its blurred path and instead listened for the telltale crack of the bat and the familiar whir of the ball, reminding me of the vestiges of summer when we raced around the yard at sundown, deep into September, finally tucking away those precious bits of plastic in a corner of the garage—the place where they would winter seemingly forever."

"Even without the aforementioned harbingers of summer, I know the season of suntans and sweet corn is nigh. My sandals tell me so. They beg to be pulled from the depths of my closet where they’ve gathered dust since late October—a Hippie-ish heap of worn and weathered leather that has been all but forgotten. Out of sight, out of mind. They long to taste sweet freedom, to feel the fresh air upon their hide and to soak up the sun like there’s no tomorrow. I don’t blame them. My toes have pined for much the same since the first snow."

"As for my youngest charges, it is their beloved Crocs that whisper to them unremittingly, demanding to be worn, beckoning from the recesses of our hall closet."

"So after my far-from-textbook discourse on the birds and the bees (and kangaroos, too), I was free to return to what I had been doing—brooding and stressing over the soon-to-be-scheduled procedure that would in effect end my childbearing years. And despite knowing it wouldn’t be life threatening or even life altering for that matter, somewhere deep inside I felt it would be a life changing event. It smacked of finality. Of another chapter in my life coming to a close. Of coming to terms with an inevitable truth: One day soon my womb would no longer serve as the soil in which a seed could be sown, a haven for a child-that-might-have-been."

"But what I found utterly delicious about this literary gem was the fact that I could identify with much of what Lanie, the main character, felt about motherhood. About marriage. About choices. About body image. About longing to reclaim and reconnect with the self I once knew—before the onslaught of life and love and the wonderful mess said 'fork-in-the-road' journey so inevitably engendered. Now and forever."

"June is calling. I know this much is true. Not because the calendar tells me so or because the sun lingers deliciously at the close of each day, but because I’ve been formally reinstated as the resident Flip-flop Finder (i.e. the fool who routinely scours the earth at dusk, rescuing forsaken footwear from an untimely demise). More specifically, I traipse around in the dark and dewy grass with flashlight-in-hand, grousing about someone’s less than responsible behavior—searching interminably for evidence of my children’s beloved shoe-like entities that in all likelihood will be consumed by the mean and horrible lawn mower should I fail to deliver in a timely manner. Needless to say, there is a great deal of pressure in this job."

"All the while I spoke, I had the stupid phone wedged under my chin and was running around the house like a madwoman lifting blankets and pillows, crawling around on all fours to peer beneath cabinets and couches, tearing apart the little cardboard nest my kids had built for him…frantically scanning the cluttered world in which I live for that fuzzy-headed nitwit of mine with chipmunk breath and a king-sized swagger. Had he escaped into the great outdoors? Again!? Of course, I felt horrible—like a slipshod mother who possessed not one stinking clue regarding the whereabouts of her whiskered and wayward son. Grok!"

"Lots of little extras came with the home my husband and I fell in love with a dozen or so years ago. Things you simply can’t put a price on—like the infinitely practical slab of concrete in the back yard that begs to be festooned with chalk and filled with a bevy of bikes and scooters. Never mind its intended purpose as a basketball court. Additional nuggets of goodness for which I cannot readily assign a price: its breathtaking view of the city—especially at night, its perfectly situated vantage point for savoring both sun and moonrises, the massive shade trees that pepper the property and welcome cool breezes come summertime, its sprawling sea of grass and little islands of blooming things that continue to thrive despite my anything-but-green thumb, its great canopy of pines—hollowed out to perfection for the ultimate secret hideout, the way it’s nestled into a hillside as if nature had intended it all along."

"Stop it, Pottery Barn. Stop making my kids drool over that which I cannot afford and would never buy anyway. Have you no shame?! My children now hate me. Yes, HATE me—not for demanding that they close your four-color rag at eleven-fricking-fifteen in the evening and get ready for bed already, or for failing to “ooh” and “aah” appropriately as they flip through its pages delirious with wanton desire, but for not dropping everything to order this and that foolish bit of tripe splashed across the landscape of your wondrously opulent magazine. Grok!"

"I am completely fogged by the way my charges can recite verbatim the vat of horribleness I’ve delivered on more than one occasion (most of which have involved orange juice spillages and missed school buses). More specifically, the shameful string of words that pour unremittingly from my stupid mouth despite KNOWING how infinitely wrong and hurtful they are (i.e. the parenting tirades from hell during which the wheels fly off and Mommie Dearest rears her ugly head)."

"Two years ago my kids swam like stones. Stones both dense and unwieldy in nature. Stones destined for the bottoms of lakes and ponds and pools. And yet, there was an uncanny barnacle-ness about them as well (i.e. they desperately clung to whatever floatation device or seemingly tallish torso that happened to be handy—namely my husband’s or mine)."

"That said, I’m not entirely sure my kids even wanted to learn to swim—like guppies or anything else equipped with fins and gills. Life was perfectly perfect coiled inextricably around someone’s head, neck and shoulders, their smallish bodies submerged just enough to enjoy a taste of refreshing coolness, while a goodly portion remained above the water’s surface, safe and sound from the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad abyss that surely sought to harm them."

"...children can and will defy all logic and understanding. Case in point: when they emphatically reveal that the best part of a fun-filled day at an amusement park (read: a marathon-inspired excursion involving an obscene number of rides and French fries) was purchasing a $3 inflatable elephant named Bob. Similarly, the most memorable thing from attending a week’s worth of basketball camp might just have been '…drinking a whole can of Orange Crush soda so I could burp really LOUD, Mom!'"

"Parenting is hard. There are no instructions to speak of—no beacon of light to lead us through the dark and tangled wood. The hours are ungodly, the questions, untold and the consequences of failure, grave. What’s more, the path toward raising a happy, healthy child is strewn with rocks and roots and vicious snarls of brambles, forever hindering our forward progression, forever smiling as we stumble to the ground and forever eager to plant a seed of doubt within our minds. The seed that all too often whispers, 'You’re doing it wrong. You’re going the wrong way. You’re an unspeakably horrible parent who is more adept at raising her voice than a child.' And for whatever reason (and despite all the good we may have done thus far in the journey), that message resonates somewhere deep inside—presumably in the dark and dusky corners where self-deprecation quietly festers."

"'Oh, no! Not the Cat in the Hat notes!' I wailed. 'I love those things!' Indeed, I fondly recall the day I stumbled into what I considered to be the greatest find a parent of a grade-schooler could be blessed with—a collection of ONE HUNDRED Dr. Seuss-isms, smartly bound by Hallmark in a four-color, pocket-sized booklet, designed specifically with harried moms like me in mind (That’s code for: I did a happy dance right there in the middle of the aisle and shouted 'Sam I am!' while clutching said nugget of brilliance to my breast)."

"I thought it was cute. I thought it was clever. I thought it would save me from a slow and horrible death an obscenely tedious task—that of scrawling a bazillion heartfelt (and agonizingly original) notes to my children at an ungodly hour, when my brain barely functions beyond what is necessary for pouring my exhausted self into bed. But no. The child hath spoken. 'No more Dr. Seuss notes, Mom. I’m a THIRD GRADER, remember?' 'Yes, I remember,' I bemoaned that irrefutable truth."

"'Yeah, yeah, yeah. Halloween, Schmalloween,' I grouse to no one, thinking of how consumed my brood will be with all-that-is-grisly-and-gruesome till the night of terror and celebrated harvest of sugary treats is finally over. Indeed, I am troubled by the hype surrounding the event, nauseated by the deluge of candy corn spilling from checkout counters near and far and burdened unmercifully by the demands that have been placed upon me to produce two of the most obscenely wonderful costumes on the planet—'…because we HAVE to be the SCARIEST, Mom. It’s a RULE.'"

"True to my paranoid self, I obsess, 'I do not like LICE in my HOUSE! It makes me CRINGE, it makes me GROUSE! Please, oh please, don’t let there be, anything LICE-ISH there for me!'"

"All the while I considered said nugget of wonderfulness (i.e. a two-pound Chocolate Cookie Halloween House Kit, complete with 47 bats, dozens of little green candies I would later damn to hell, enough gumdrops to coat eleventy-seven teeth and an expander, a defective ghost—or rather, segments of insanely sweet candy, suggestive of something that was once intact and specter-like—and a cauldron full of powdery mixes that were sure to deliver hours of goo-inspired, edible fun and to yield the most perfect hues of orange and purple icing on the planet)."

"In the end, I was shamed into buying the box of foolishness. Because that’s what moms do. Just like all the other project-y stuff I haul home out of sheer guilt; never mind the games and books and techno-gadgetry thought to engender this or that brand of awe in my children. It’s all about the Is-it-as-remarkable-as-a-pony factor and Will-it-expunge-from-the-record-my-screw-ups-to-date?"

"For whatever reason, the gods of morning madness have been smiling upon me these past few weeks. And like any good cynic, I keep waiting for the bottom to fall out. With every ounce of my being, I fully expect my petulant children to return, brimming with an abundance of snarky commentary regarding breakfast cereal choices (or the lack thereof), eager to display the alarm clock-inspired rage to which I’ve grown so accustomed and to bring to the fore their lovely penchant for bickering with one another at dark-thirty. Joy. Likewise, I presume the frenzied packing-of-lunches-and-backpacks thing coupled with shrieks involving the very real possibility of missing the bus will resume shortly as well."

"If nothing else, it would feel familiar. Quite frankly, I am suspect of the degree of calm that has befallen my home of late. Mornings are no longer intolerably hectic, which I find fairly disturbing since it’s all I’ve known since the days of kindergarten. There are no shouting matches to speak of, no monumental crises related to bedhead or perceived fashion offenses and, incredibly, no one has become enraged over wrinkles in socks or the gunkiness of toothpaste for days on end. Gasp!"

"But perhaps the motivation runs deeper than that. Part of me suspects that under the surface lies a host of benefits aside from the obvious. Like the delicious sliver of time in which we snuggle together before anyone heads to the kitchen. All four of us, looking as much like sardines as anything, burrow beneath a sea of blankets in our big, oak bed—the place where toes are warmed and whispers are shared in the waning moments of still and darkness."

"I also give thanks daily for our dog—who hasn’t destroyed a leash or consumed a chew toy in months, for cats who remind me that napping ought to be a necessary and shameless activity and for the disturbingly hypnotic quality of Sponge Bob Squarepants, which has entranced my unruly brood more than once, enabling me to sound almost coherent on the telephone."

"Furthermore, I am indescribably grateful that Thing One and Thing Two refrain from inspecting dog dung under their magnifying glasses (tempting though that might be), they have yet to light anything of value on fire and they stopped bringing colonies of caterpillars into the house months ago. For these things, even a Pilgrim would rejoice."

"Making matters worse (read: FAR worse), I am surrounded by people who are disturbingly organized at Christmastime—which makes me want to hurl. Or stomp my feet. Or scribble upon the stupid little checklists with which they’ve been molecularly bonded since June. I ought to be inspired by such greatness, moved to bring order to my world, called to improve upon my pitiful state of affairs as it relates to conquering the almighty calendar."

"Instead, I feel scorn. And resentment. And shame. As if I’m the only woman on the face of the earth who can’t stay on top of things to save herself. The lout who looks around in wonder at all the other moms who are there when their kids have an important event at school, who remember to cut crusts off and to schedule haircuts, who take the time to admire refrigerator art, wiggly teeth and school desks that were tidied “…just for you, Mom.”"

"The moms who are getting it right. At Christmastime and every other time. Day in and day out. Indeed, I sometimes lament about the multitude of flaws in my life and begrudge those whose lives seem so infinitely perfect, but much of the time I am content to merely graze the surface of rightness on occasion. To manage the unmanageable now and again. To be thankful for all that is very nearly right in my world. At Christmastime and every other time."

"My kids asked Santa for all sorts of weird stuff this Christmas. A hermit crab. Pokémon whateverness. Edward Scissorhands. A talking door hanger. A hypoallergenic goat."

"Take a look around. We’re hermetically sealed to our smartphones, which boast more bells and whistles than we can easily count or capably employ. We’re unable to function in coffee shops without our dear WiFi laptops, upon which we tap incessantly to escape into our own little worlds. We’ve grown obsessed with texting, tweeting and all-that-is-terrifically-instantaneous—completely convinced that the world really needs to know what we’re doing every minute of every day. In the name of brevity, our very thoughts have been pared down to pithy bursts of 140 characters or less—to our detriment, I fear."

"Technology was the bane of my existence this past year, wrapping its ruthless tendrils around my world. That said, I think my cell phone’s smarter than I am. Seriously. Either that or I’ve become more stupid as a result of relying on it for virtually everything. Disturbingly, I feel naked without it."

"Further, I’ll fight the urge to rush my children through their sentences and dismiss the idea that they, too, must condense their messages to a specified number of characters. I’ll tune in more frequently too, purposefully pausing to bend down and really listen to them. Better still, I’ll etch in my mind forever the particular hue of their eyes and the curve of their smallish lips as they share with me the important stuff of life."

"Two years ago, when my youngest daughters turned seven, I gave them each a diary—a scrumptious chunk of blank space within which they would reveal their innermost hopes, fears and desires—to the world, or to no one. A place where thoughts could be poured onto paper without hesitation or shame. A 234-page sentinel-of-secrets, complete with its own tiny lock and key (a decidedly priceless feature I am told). A canvas upon which Thing One and Thing Two could portray Mommie Dearest in horrific detail."

"Of course, I bought said diaries because I so greatly enjoy being maligned because I am perfectly incapable of resisting that which is certain to thrill my brood beyond all imagining. Translation: Anything thought to celebrate the notion of secrecy makes my kids drunk with joy. Further, I was shamed into buying them. That said, the silly things beckoned to me from the shelf where they sat, insisting that I act immediately—lest my dear progenies be robbed of happiness forever."

Planet Mom: It’s Where I Live…™

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