More Mommy

I have a stalker. Or “obsessed fan”, if you prefer. He needs to be with me constantly. He cries when we’re not together. His love for me is immeasurable. He’d even get my name tattooed on his arm if he knew what tattoos were and how to spell my name. The worst part is, there’s no escape from my passionate little groupie. Because he’s my 3 year-old son. And he knows where I live.

Jack was first infatuated with me when he was a newborn, which is completely understandable. After all, I was the Lunch Lady. A veritable 24-hour all-you-can-eat Vegas buffet/Nudie Show that was available to him whenever the mood struck. And the mood struck about every two hours. My nipples still quiver in fright at the mere mention of those early morning dinner shows.

When Jack turned one, he suddenly couldn’t get away from me fast enough. I was the hardnosed Safety Police, thwarting his every attempt to climb into public fountains, lick dogs or jab sharp, pointy things into his ears. What kind of kid wants to be around a woman who won’t let them eat carpet or throw dollar bills in the toilet? Not Jack. At age two, he ever so slowly started toddling back to me. Mostly because I was the only one in the house who smelled good and knew how to use the DVD player.

Then the morning of his third birthday arrived and he woke with a wild glint in his eyes. Running past his pile of shiny presents to the biggest present of all, he hugged my legs with all of his might and decided right then and there that the only thing better than Mommy was more Mommy. That was six months ago. This is what life with Jack is like now:

Monday: Talks to me for five solid hours, mostly about circles. The checker at the grocery store asks if I gave him coffee and cigarettes for breakfast.

Tuesday: Insists on joining me in a crowded restroom, then loudly asks where my penis is. My response, “Peanuts? What peanuts?!? Are you hungry for peanuts?” doesn’t fool him and only solicits giggles from other stalls.

Wednesday: Is far more thrilled to see me at 4 a.m. than I am to see him.

Thursday: Falls apart when I bend over to pick something up and he can’t see me for 1.5 seconds.

Friday: Competes with his older brother for the honor of holding my hand. Unlike my long-held fantasy of two gentlemen fighting over me in a rather dashing duel, this one consists of two crazed preschoolers whacking the crap out of each other with half-full juice boxes.

Saturday: Ignores playroom full of toys so he can help mommy do work on the computer. After two minutes of non-stop fist pounding on the keyboard, somehow manages to e-mail the Pentagon my pap smear results.

Sunday: Carried out of house by husband while digging his fingernails into the doorjamb and screaming “MAHHH-MEEE!” like a 3 foot-high Stanley Kowalski from A Streetcar Named Desire. Alone at last, I start to miss him after 15 minutes.

I know it won’t be long until Jack will only want me when he’s either wounded or in jail or, if he’s anything like his uncle, if he’s wounded while in jail. That’s why I try to be patient when he insists on snuggling with me at 2 a.m. Or when he says “Mommy” 5,312 times in a row. But I still look at mothers of teenagers with a little bit of envy and dream about the day when I can take a shower without a cheering audience.

Why I Shouldn't Take Sudafed On An Empty Stomach

“Hi, Mrs. Johnson. I’m here to pick up Sam from school. Oh, I see the class had face painting today! That’s great! Wow—look at you, Mrs. Johnson! All painted up like a tiger. And you’re even wearing little tiger ears! I think someone’s husband is going to have themselves quite a wild night tonight, ifyouknowwhatImean, girlfriend! Grooowlll!”

(Long, uncomfortable silence.)

"Crap. Was that out loud?"

(Long, uncomfortable silence.)

"Guess this means I'll be chaperoning the field trip to the waste treatment plant, huh?"

(Long, uncomfortable silence.)

"OK, well, see you tomorrow. BADASS TIGER LADY!"

(Long, uncomfortable silence.)

"That was out loud, too, wasn't it?"

Why I Shouldn't Have Sat In Front of Those Elderly Women at the Movie Theater

Well, thank God it doesn't smell like piss and graham crackers in here like the goddamn lobby does.

If I wanted to see bullshit commercials, I'd stay home and watch them on the TV. But I don't want to stay home and watch them and that's why I paid my nine goddamn dollars to be here at the movie theater. Does that Coca-Cola even need to advertise? Those fatties by the video games were suckin' it down like it was going out of style. Unbelievable.

Good, the previews...oh, Lord help us all -- J. Lo made another movie. Can't somebody stop her? Box office poison, that one.

Finally, the movie starts. I don't know why we have to sit through 10 minutes of bullshit beforehand just to see a movie these days. Those stupid Hollywood liberals like Warren Beatty are ruining it for everyone. Commies.

Get that popcorn away from me. Last time I had some it got stuck in my dental work like a son of a bitch.

WHAT DID HE SAY? THAT FELLA THERE. THE ONE IN THE STUPID LOOKING SHIRT. YEAH, HIM. WELL, WHAT'D HE SAY? NO, BEFORE. DURING THE CAR CHASE. NO, THE OTHER CAR CHASE. WHAT? THAT'S WHAT HE SAID? WELL THAT DOESN'T MAKE SENSE. OH, WAIT. WHAT'D HE SAY AGAIN?

Who's that? But I thought she died. It was the other one? The little blonde? Oh, I liked her. She looked like my niece in Montana. You know, the one who had all the children out of wedlock.

That's the end? What'd you think? You liked it? No, no. You're entitled to your opinion, of course. But why the hell'd you like it? Compared to this, Ben Stiller's movies look like frickin' Best Picture winners. Yeah, well, mabye you like it because you slept through half of it. It'd be good that way, I guess.

A Parenting Tip

If you're at your children's preschool sing-a-long and the song leader says, "Guess what I found sitting on my car this morning?", the right answer to loudly yell is "An Itsy-Bitsy Spider!"

The wrong answer to loudly yell is "Your ex-husband!"

A Suburban Mother Tells Her 12-Year-Old Neighbor How To Make His Street Gang MorePowerful

Gang Name
Let's start with what you and your "homies" call yourselves. It needs to be something tough. Menacing. For example, "Crips," "Bloods," "the Latin Kings"—all "badass." Your name, "the Wildflower Estates Mafia," while geographically accurate, doesn't exactly make one grab one's purse and blow one's rape whistle. I know you're creative, Jeremy. Remember when you spray-painted "NOT A MILF" on my fence? Use that great imagination of yours and come up with a name that's just a bit more intimidating. My husband suggests "the Future Cell Bitches of America."

Gang Colors/Uniforms
Each gang needs to have its own special color so they know who to shoot. Unfortunately, most of the butch colors, like red, blue, and black, have already been taken by the big names. But here's an idea: chartreuse. Subtle, yet powerful and unexpected at the same time. You might like it. (I know your mom does.) And regarding outfits, I just have one note: Gang bangers usually wear only one simple, well-placed bandanna on their bodies—not soccer uniforms with their last names on the back. Think, Jeremy.

Gang Activity
Thus far, you and the other little shits have caused quite the ruckus in our cul-de-sac. But it's time to think big picture. What if the Crips had been content to just smash birdhouses and smear dog turds on garden gnomes? Or what if, instead of inventing the drive-by shooting, they'd been happy just decapitating decorative snowmen during the holidays? Where would America's crack epidemic be then, Jeremy? You're in middle school now. Time to get organized and up the ante. I think this could be the year your larcenies make the move from petty to grand. You guys just need to apply yourselves.

Gang Power
As a very famous Italian drug kingpin once said, first you get the money, then you get the power. (Then, allegedly, you get the women, but, trust me, you and the rest of the Acne Brigade are not ready for that. Wait until your voices change and your pubes sprout.) Gang Power 101 is simple economics. Find out what people want, sell it to them, then, boom, you're controlling the subdivision before you hit the ninth grade. However, for this to work, you've got to know your market. Look around. Your bedroom closets should be just crammed full of cases of Chardonnay, diet pills, and illegal Botox. Get rich or die tryin', G-Unit.

Gang Signs
Gangstas like to flash "hand signs" to each other to identify themselves. Usually, these signs are a few fingers on each hand held in various poses. Not a lone middle finger raised every time they see their neighbor at the mailbox. You're not fooling anyone, mister.

Gangsta Style
West Coast gangsters started the baggy-pants trend because they needed a place to hide their semiautomatic weapons. Since your weapons of choice are urine-filled squirt guns, you could probably get by with normal-people pants. Or maybe invest in a nice leather belt. If you want people to take you seriously as a leader, perhaps it's time to put the ass crack away.

I hope this helps your gang get "mad power," Jeremy. I wish you and your posse lots of luck. And remember, the homeowners association doesn't need to know anything about those little smelly plants you found under my deck.

Why I Don't Write Poetry

Seasons change.
Like moods, they can be dark.
Or light.
Or kinda/sorta grayish. Like my Volvo. Which so needs to be washed. Have you seen the front grill? It's like a damn burial ground for half of the state's bug population. I'm surprised I'm not on the Dragonfly's Most Wanted List for committing over 2,000 acts of aggravated insecticide. But hey, you fly, you die, Mr. Bee. Not my problem if you can't watch where you're going. Just try not to hit the Volvo emblem again, OK? It's a bitch to scrape off.
Seasons change.

Winter hurts.
Wind blows harshly.
Onto my very soul.
And my feet, btw, which are always cold. Size 9 blue ice cubes. Today I seriously considered putting them in the microwave and pushing the "Defrost Hamburger" button just to thaw them out a little. But then I would have had to disinfect it and who has time for that when "The Real Housewives of Orange County" marathon is on? Not me, sisterfriend. I wonder if Slade's feet ever get cold in the OC? No, that'd be impossible. He's too hot.
Winter hurts.

Summer shines.
The leaves sparkle.
Sunlight plays on them like music.
And I mean music that doesn't suck, thank you very much. Like P. Diddy. What the hell is that? "Yeah, yeah. Uh-huh, uh-huh." That's not music. It's involuntary grunts set to a beat. And am I getting old or does every new band have some sort of moronic name like "Arctic Monkeys"? Back in my day, band's names meant something. Like Wham! They were totally awesome. Which doesn't mean I condone George Michael's cry-for-help behavior as of late. Because I don't. Although I'm sure somewhere Andrew Ridgeley's getting quite the charge out of it.
Summer shines.

House: A Grown-Up Fairy Tale

We bought our first house six years ago; pre-kid. And for the first two years we lived in it, things were very, very calm. Quiet. Serene, really. Nobody was home much, things worked the way they were supposed to work and the house was even treated to frequent cleanings and fresh paint jobs. In the house's mind (which is located by the water heater), these were the salad days. There was nothing for it to do but just relax and sink into its golden years. Then the boys came along.

Suddenly the walls were under attack, the carpet was fighting to stay its original color and the hardwood floors were so wet, they thought they were back in the Oregon rainforest. Now the house found itself always occupied, always used and constantly, constantly noisy. Screams, cries and giggles filled its rooms, even in the dead of night. Toys beeped their way into previously unexplored corners. Every window had tiny finger smudges and every toilet was suddenly perplexed by its new importance. ("A 'potty success' chart in my honor? Really?") The house became upset and angry. It felt betrayed by its owners. Why did they have to bring in these little intruders? The house didn't want them. And, after all, it was there first. So the house decided to fight back.

Floors suspiciously became uneven under a brand-new walker's feet. Doors screeched to pinch chubby little fingers. Closets that once seemed roomy now seemed packed. Even the walls got into the act and invited scary shadows to flicker Midnight Monsters shows so terrifying, they propelled the boys out of their beds and into ours. Sure, you can live here, the house seemed to say, but I'm not going to make it easy on you. In the end, the house proved a worthy opponent against the two little boys. So worthy, in fact, we started to think maybe it was too old, too unreliable, too small. So we sold it.

We moved into a trophy-wife of a house. It was new, bigger. The walls were pristine, the carpets spotless and even the shadows on the boys' walls seemed friendlier. Admittedly, it was a little weird to be in a house that had no history and no memories. If our other house was a cranky middle-ager, this house was a week-old puppy. The big backyard beckoned for play. The sunny, bright playroom yearned to be filled with loud, obnoxious toys. It was all a blank canvas just waiting to be introduced to Crayola and Pepperidge Farm. We were nothing if not its perfect match.

And our old house? It finally got what it wanted. A crumb-free existence. A life of peace and quiet and emptiness. Nobody slammed its cabinets or spilled juice on its tiles. No "Dora the Explorer" blared from the TV. Nobody sat sulking in its laundry room "until he's ready to be a good boy." Once again, the house could just sit and think and look at the trees and the grass and settle.

And the house was never more miserable.

Then one day, a moving truck pulled up to the house. A young couple moved in with their stain-free furniture, delicate artwork and cats. The house stood up straight, gave its shingles a shake and tried for a welcoming smile. Then it looked for the kids. Listened for their tiny, wonderful voices. Waited to feel their sticky fingers exploring its walls. Strangely enough, it didn't find any. Stranger still, even though it was occupied again, the house still felt empty. And then, in the house's mind (which is located by the water heater), and idea formed. With all its might, the house gave a small shudder ("Just the house settling, dear") and knocked a forgotten baby toy out of a cabinet to land at the couple's feet. They smiled, looked at each other and said, "Must be a sign." The house creaked in contentment. Hi, it said to them. I'm your house. Live in me.

Highlights from What The Neighbors Overheard Today

8 a.m.
See? This is why you go to the potty first thing in the morning. So you don't pee on mommy. Now mommy has to spray Lysol on her feet. Not good.

9 a.m.
Believe me, I'm not happy school was cancelled today either, but do you see me running around like a psychotic ferret? No, you do not.

10 a.m.
You're shittin' me. It's only 10 a.m.?

10:05 a.m.
What time is it now?

10:06 a.m.
I'm gonna need some Motrin.

11:00 a.m.
Which one of you crammed Play-Doh in my blowdryer?

11:10 a.m.
Alright, you're released for now. But I'll find out who did it. It's called DNA, my friends.

12:30 p.m.
Did you just wipe your nose on the couch again?

1:00 p.m.
Seriously, where's the Motrin?

1:30 p.m.
For the last time, don't call your little brother "Suckaman".

2:00 p.m.
Don't call me "Suckaman", either.

3:00 p.m.
Yes, I know this medicine is for kids, but sometimes mommies take it so the crazy jackhammer pounding in their head goes bye-bye and they can stop crying in the guest bathroom, OK?

3:10 p.m.
Good God, now I'm burping up bubblegum-flavored ibuprofen.

4:00 p.m.
What the...? I knew you two were being too quiet up here. Hurry--get the Dustbuster, my rubber gloves and do not touch anything in this room with your bare hands until I'm done. And for the love of God, keep the cats out of here.

5:00 p.m.
Get in the car, boys. We've got an appointment at the drive-thru liquor barn and I don't wanna be late.

5:15 p.m.
Oh, praise Jesus, Daddy's here! Well, see you later, guys. Mommy's got a date with her friend Cabernet. And from what I can tell, it's going to be a late night.

The Superhero Book

What’s the name of this superhero?

I don’t know…Wolverine?

Yeah, it’s Wolverine. What’s his superpower?

Let me look…Oh, good God. Are those 10-inch claws on his hands? Turn the page.

OK, who’s this one?

Um…"The Thing". Apparently his superpower is eczema.

Oh, look! Spiderman! How'd he get his spider powers?

Let’s see…it says he was bitten by a…radioactive spider? Oh, that’s nice. What’s the recommended age for this book anyway? Twenty-five? Remind me to thank your uncle for giving you this. Like at 2 a.m. when you're screaming your head off because you think psychotic wolf people are in your closet. Let's thank him then.

What’s radioactive mean?

Radioactive is when…protons, I mean neutrons…make energy? Or…why can’t I remember this? I can totally picture the little blue radioactive logo and those cute orange Hazmat suits… Does it have something to do with radios? Like radio waves? No, no, that’s stupid. Oh! Is it the mushroom cloud thingy?

Do you know what radioactive means or not?

It's "science".

Am I ever going to get bitten by a spider?

Not if you make your bed every day.

What’s that supposed…

Look! The Jolly Green Giant!

That’s the Hulk. (Long disappointed pause) How come you don’t know anything about superheroes?

Um, I guess I never…

Tommy's mom loves superheroes.

Tommy's mom is a pasty white computer engineer who looks like Bill Murray. I mean, I liked other things when I was in school.

Like what?

Fresh air. Not having pig’s blood dumped on me. Bananarama. You know, the usual.

Well, I think superheroes are cool and I’m going to read comic books every day. Even when I'm a grown-up.

Then I hope you like living with your mother.

Hey! Who's this girl?

Wonder Woman.

She's pretty. You should get a suit like hers.

I don’t think so, honey.

Why not?

Because mommy has a superpower, too. It’s called cellulite. And it’s the most powerful force in the universe.

New Easter Egg Hunt Policy

Dear Parents:

Due to some rather unfortunate incidents that transpired during last spring's school-wide Easter Egg Hunt, it has become necessary to take certain precautions this year. Therefore, listed below please find items that should not, under any circumstances, be used to fill the plastic eggs used for the hunt.

For most of you, the list is simple common sense. However, as we learned far too late last year, there are a few troublemakers among you who apparently find it amusing to go to a bar the night before, get “totally bombed", then "load up the mothereffin' eggs" so chaos can then ensue at the taxpayers’ expense. We dearly hope these inconsiderate renegades will not take this nasty route again and instead, be filled with the Spirit of the Bunny. Let’s make this a special day for children and parents alike.

NOT TO BE USED AS EGG FILLERS:

Cigarette Butts

Tequila

Lime Slices

Salt

Hair Extensions

Beer Nuts

Cocktail Napkins Covered in Men’s Phone Numbers

Lee Press-On Nails

Jell-O Shots of Any Flavor

Tattoo Parlor Gift Certificates

Chicken

Thank you for your cooperation in this matter. Also, please be advised that this year we will be conducting mandatory fingerprinting for all parents an hour before the event. Happy Easter and happy hunting!

Loser Mom

I am a teenage mother. Oh, not chronologically. Let's be serious, I couldn't even get a date in high school, much less find some horny 16-year-old to knock me up in the backseat of his parents' Ford Escort. No, age wise, I'm not even close to being a teenager. But social skills-wise, I'm just one lousy retainer and a bottle of Clearasil away from being shoved into a locker and sent crying to the guidance counselor.

After surviving my first set of awkward years, I grew into a charming adult. I had good interpersonal skills. I was witty, verbose, well-informed. I made people laugh with me. Not at me. My career in the film business and later, advertising required that I talk to all kinds of people, from movie stars to janitors, and I did it well. Then I reproduced and any ability I'd had to make new friends disappeared as abruptly as my flat stomach, perky breasts and freedom to go to the bathroom alone. For I had become not only a mother, I had become a social nightmare.

The Dinner:

I was thrilled when my friend Dena invited me to have dinner with two of her friends from Seattle. I went to college in Oregon, so Pacific Northwesterners are my peeps -- pasty vegetarians who stay indoors all day listening to The Grateful Dead and suppressing suicidal thoughts. I couldn't wait.

The night started off well with the women all lovely, and me my old, likable self. Then someone brought up movies and suddenly all bets were off. Thrilled with the chance to discuss films that didn't star talking animals, I breathlessly launched into a 10-minute-long diatribe about the superiority of '70s filmmakers that was so loud and impassioned, even Tarantino would have said, "Man, she's obnoxious." Concluding with what I thought was a rather brilliant comparison between Apocalypse Now and Must Love Dogs, I sat back, looked proudly around the table and saw three stunned faces staring at me like I was an escapee from a Lord of the Rings convention. I took a deep breath and braced myself for a wedgie.

In my panicked state, I looked for a way to divert attention. Pointing to the person in the booth next to us, I quietly offered that he looked like "Mick Jagger, circa 1978." This got a small laugh. Encouraged, I continued, "I don't know," I said, "but whenever I look at him, I hear 'Sympathy for the Devil'. Ah-yah!" This garnered even more amusement. I was back, baby. Then Mick got up and two horrifying things were immediately evident: 1) Mick was a woman 2) Mick had Multiple Sclerosis. Which, of course, I would have figured out sooner if I'd been looking at her "Walk for MS" t-shirt rather than her wavy Rolling Stones hair. As she slowly limped past our table, everybody's eyes went to the floor. My entire body burning with embarrassment, I looked to Dena, my only friend at the table, for some reassurance. She scooted her chair away.

The Park:

One warm spring day, I took my two-year-old son, Jack, to the park to ride the little train. He was really excited to ride the little train, until I bought the non-refundable tickets to ride the little train. Then he started frantically screaming "NO RIDE WITTLE TWAIN!! NO RIDE WITTLE TWAIN!" (If Jack wore a mood ring, it'd explode from overuse.)

Unused little train tickets in hand, I approached a friendly-looking woman with a young daughter, and asked if she could use them. This led to a very pleasant conversation about our kids, ourselves, and the world in general. (Your typical park/birthday party/Gymboree conversation: "Yes, I agree that we should consider trade sanctions with North Korea. JACK STOP THROWING ROCKS!! I MEAN IT, MISTER! Do you think the UN will be able to intervene? OWW! DID YOU JUST AIM THAT AT ME? YEAH, YOU'D BETTER RUN, WHITEBREAD! What are your thoughts on the issue?").

Discovering we were both in the writing field, I told her about some of my projects and she was very enthusiastic. She then graciously invited me to the next meeting of her "woman's group," which included Harvard graduates, novelists and other local literary professionals. I was delighted at the prospect of being included in such lofty company and thus responded with all of the social grace of Screech from Saved By The Bell. "That sounds great," I said. "But it's not a pyramid scheme, is it?" I'm still waiting for her e-mail.

The Jeans:

It was my son Sam's first T-ball practice and I was dressed in what I thought any suburban mother would wear to a Little League field on a Friday night - a slightly stained t-shirt, old Levis and a cat hair covered baseball hat. Then I saw the other mothers milling about in their size-4 designer jeans, silk tank tops and strappy sandals and once again, I was a 7th grade loser in JC Penney corduroys while everyone else knew Gloria Vanderbilt jeans were now de rigueur. Hiding behind an equipment bag, I tried to figure out why they looked like they lived in The O.C. and I looked like a reject from Blue Collar TV. Had I missed the coach's e-mail that said, "Bring a bat, a glove and cocktail party attire?" Was there going to be a jazz band in the dugout after grounder practice? Or was this just how mothers, at least in our neighborhood, dressed these days?

Caving into peer pressure faster than a preacher's daughter at a hip hop concert, I hauled it to Nordstrom the next day and shakily plunked down $150 for a pair of jeans that were so stylishly low, you could see how I delivered my children. Back at home, I modeled the jeans for my husband. "They look good," he said. "How much did they cost?" I gulped and told him the truth. His eyes widened, he took one more look at the jeans, then muttered, not unkindly, "They make your ass look big." I returned them the next day and spent the money on five pairs of Gap jeans and a sandwich.

After these horrifying incidents, I tried to figure out why motherhood had caused me to socially regress. Sure, most of my conversations these days are with people under three feet high whose favorite words are "booger," "diarrhea," and "Chex Mix," but still… Maybe the brain cells that control witty banter were somehow attached to my long lost placentas. Maybe repeated viewing of The Wonderpets gives you the personality of a chronic pot smoker. But more likely, maybe it's just the sad, simple fact that making new friends is hard at any stage of life.

Eager to lose my pariah status, I launched a calculated campaign to fit in better. I no longer referred to my kids and myself as "playdate sluts" when talking to other moms. I stopped openly making fun of Wal-Mart, Christian rock and conversion vans. I kept most of my thoughts, and cracklin' personality, to myself. And it actually worked. I met a lot of other mothers and struck up tentative friendships. I was mature and composed and finally felt like one of the in-crowd. It was time for me to make my triumphant walk down the staircase to a round of slow, meaningful applause and head off into a night of bliss at the prom.

And then my Molly Ringwald moment came. You know, the one where she defiantly yanks off her Homecoming Queen tiara because she finally sees that she hasn't been (all together now) "true to herself"? I came to realize that while I had a lot of new friends, I really didn't like them so much. They weren't funny. They weren't weird. And I like weird. I am weird. And that's when I decided I was no longer going to surrender my personality just so I could be that beautiful, popular cheerleader at the football game. I'd rather be one of the dorks under the bleachers making fun of her, anyway.