It was one of those beach evenings that trick you into believing you could have a successful career in postcards. The sun was setting over the unusually choppy waters of the Gulf. The sky morphed dramatically from orange to pink, then purple and red. Eagle rays occasionally leapt out of the water, not gracefully, but like baby birds flapping hairless wings. My friends and I were enjoying the sunset on the sand together. The men were paddle boarding in the chop and the ladies were standing around chatting, keeping one eye on the kids playing in the water. I was standing wishing I had worn my …

I have no light bulbs in my house. None. Well, a few. In the chandelier above the dining room table there is one, where there should be six. In the bathroom: one out of five. In my bedroom: none. Hope you don’t want to find a particular black T-shirt. In the hallway: one out of three. Boys’ room: one out of four. In the guest bathroom: none. You just have to keep the door open, which you have to do anyways, because the bathroom is too small to be occupied and have the door closed, unless you put your legs in the shower. It is not that I haven’t gone to the store to buy light bulbs. I have. In…

It is a new school year, and that means meeting lots of new moms and their kids ... and pretending to remember their names. It is my first year with a child in elementary school, and I feel immense pressure to not inadvertently insult these new moms by calling them the wrong thing. I mean, my kid might be friends with these people’s kids for the next (Kindergarten, plus five, plus middle school …) nine years. I am notoriously bad with names AND faces. I wish I could push my memory around in a teeny wheelchair so people would immediately recognize it as impaired, and all of society would be …

My children were about to get into the bath. My husband had to work late, and I just wanted this long month, long week, and long day to be over. With the water running, I felt like I had hit the home stretch. It was thundering outside and my son kept whimpering at each rumble, a high-pitched mouse whine, a noise that could be awarded “No. 1 Most Annoying in the World!” “Thunder scares me,” he squeaked, not moving toward the tub. His innocuous comment shriveled my ego like it had been hit by an ACME Shrink Ray gun; it diminished me until I was smaller than my son. I was insulted. “I’m right …

Due to my unfortunate experiences with antidepressants as a teenager, I have a bit of an (un)natural distrust for the “good ideas” that my brain pushes on me. Like millions of other teenagers, I was prescribed these little black magic pills before it was “discovered” that antidepressants can actually increase suicidal thoughts and actions. (“Eureka, Dr. Holmes! It seems that if you return the empirical data that we removed to get Prozac passed by the FDA, the suicide rate actually increases with use as compared to the placebo or even doing nothing at all.”  “My God, Dr. Watson! I’d say that …

Oprah used to state — when the subject came up — that stay-at-home mom was the hardest job in the world. Each time those words left her mouth, it felt, to me, insincere, like she knew she had to say them but what she wanted to say was, “Seriously? I work 18 hours a day, I run a zillion businesses, I own a school and I’m responsible for hundreds of people’s livelihoods, and someone who is home, at this very moment, watching TV, in the MIDDLE of the day, has the hardest job in the world?” And one of her employees, with a mic on their head and a clipboard in their hands, would say, “Remember who…

Oh, what a special time! You’re pregnant with your first child, and you and your husband are so proud. You can’t drink anymore, but that’s fine. It’s worth it, right? Your husband still can. So he does, and he goes out to bars. And for a while you go with him and everyone loves having you around because you’re the designated driver. But you quickly realize that drunk people are boring and it is only temporarily amusing to say to yourself, look, this guy is so drunk he is telling the same story again. You try to talk to anyone, but they are all happily enraptured in the retelling, like kids …

Maybe it all started with the couscous. It was a more acceptable story: to think my cat, which we’ve had for nine years, would suddenly start chewing through bags of food in the pantry. For a moment I had known what it really was, but the truth, never loud on its first arrival, had landed softly on my consciousness, creating a tickle in my brain. The tickle made me shiver, causing the truth to fall quietly from my shoulders and land on the floor under the dryer, keeping me in that familiar damp space of denial. I’ll figure it out later, I thought. Or maybe it all started with the musty …

50 Shades of Green Have you ever had one of those days where you ask one of your friends how their week was and they say, “fine”? And then they ask how your week was and you say, “Holy crap, I met this billionaire and he really liked me but then he made me sign this DNR contract, which I thought meant do not resuscitate, but really it meant I couldn’t talk about him. So I really shouldn’t be talking to you about him, but seriously it was so exciting and a little scary, but then we broke up.” And then, after you’re all out of breath from telling your friend about your thrilling week, you …

When I was pregnant with my firstborn, my husband, my mother and I came to the decision that instead of the home birth that I desired, I would have the baby at a birth center. It was an agreeable compromise. They were both nervous about a home birth, and I was nervous about a hospital one. My husband and I were not sure if our insurance company was going to pay for the birth center, even though it was about $6,000 less than an uncomplicated hospital birth. I procrastinated doing the paperwork because I didn’t want to find out that it wasn't covered. Instead, I preferred to have anxiety …

Marriage Vows for Her. By Rev. Seuss Will you love his dirty socks? Will you love his midnight talks?   Will you love his cans of beer, that he leaves both far and near? Do you love him as you wish, or will you hate each dirty dish? Do you love him here and there? Even in white underwear?   Marriage Vows for Him. Will you love those perky breasts, when upon her knees they rest? Will you love her cranky tone, and not wish to be alone? Will you love her squishy thighs, and put up with those pouty cries? Do you love her here and there?  Even in huge underwear?   I have to admit I haven’t spent …

My younger brother got chickens recently, to have fresh eggs, to enrich his children’s knowledge of animals, and to inadvertently teach them about life and death. He started with six chicks. The first two were killed by a loose neighborhood dog. A third one died a few days later, either from sadness or internal injuries. Then one was eaten by a hawk or an owl. Besides the heartbreak of losing the chicks, my brother said it was a solemn experience the first time they ate chicken after that. “Maybe you shouldn’t be your chicken’s friend,” he lamented. His comment reminded me of a Brazilian …

In case you missed my last article, let me fill you in: I have been falling behind in teaching my children how to do things for themselves, so last week I gave myself three goals to improve. TOWEL GOAL: Both kids need to get their own bath towel every night and then hang them up themselves. TOAST GOAL: My 5-year-old should start making his own breakfast in the morning. NO NUDE TODDLERS GOAL: My 3-year-old needs to learn where his clothes are and to put them on himself. Shoes too. I also gave myself three guidelines to follow: Train Them Correctly the First Time, Walk Away, Trust That They Can…

As usual, I was patting myself on the back about how much better of a parent I was than my friend who wouldn’t let her 1½-year-old jump off a tiny wall that my children had safely hurtled since they first began walking. My face broke into a smile as I mused on how I've found the perfect balance between safety and over-protection. I let my children explore, at their own pace, dangerous situations (walls, stairs, grenades) until they become experts. Just as the width of my prideful smile peaked in the center of my cheeks, the 1-year-old sat down and started teaching my 3-year-old how to put on …

In my BC history (Before Children), I avoided family vacations with the determined intent that I now focus on not cleaning my bathrooms. A childless fool, with expendable income and immortality, I was able to pay for my own holidays to exotic locales, so why would I waste my paid vacation days to be stuck in a house with boring people who nap? Why surround myself with people who cater to the never-ending whines of needy toddlers and who don’t applaud my efforts to fill their vacation home with the aphrodisiacal scent of slow roasting civet coffee? “You should be happy I am giving you this …

“Preparing for family vacation is like a commander preparing for war,” my sister-in-law, who is a three-star Lieutenant General of Motherhood, says. She’s a veteran with Vietnam-era type experiences. She’s been in the trenches, having had three kids in three years and vacationing with my family in the dark days before my father had been mellowed by eight grandchildren and a prescription for Xanax. “A good commander must assess, in the war room/living room, the unknown dangers that may confront them in their destination and be prepared for all outcomes,” she says. “But you must also balance …

Pen Name Jane said this last year, but we had to say it again. Please, whatever you do, do not make your kids buy their dad anything for Father’s Day (especially a tie). Fathers don’t want anything (unless it’s a Black 1962 Lincoln Continental Convertible with suicide doors). They don’t want boxer shorts or a singing card. They don’t want cologne or new socks. Do NOT believe the commercials. No dad ever told you to buy him anything; that was the “dad-like” guy on TV who seeped into your brain. If you have to spend money, then just go ahead and hand him the cash (not in ones). Believe me, men …

This is my first summer break as a parent. The first time my kids are off from school for the summer, and by “school” I mean the free Voluntary Pre-Kindergarten program that is paid for by the state. (Did you know they did that? Paid for 4-year-olds to go to school three hours a day, five days a week?) I am pretty excited. No schedule. No having to put the kids in clean clothes. No having to look decent in the morning for the benefit of others. No brushing teeth … wait, forget that last one. There is just one tiny thing I wish was different. I mean, I am about to do summers off with my kids …

I was talking to a friend — a childless friend — and she was saying that spanking kids is child abuse. I’ve never had someone inadvertently imply that I was a child abuser, so I sarcastically replied, “Oh, I don’t believe in spanking,” and I paused for effect, “except when you’re angry.” My friend was aghast. She went on a long spiel: “No, that is exactly when you shouldn’t because you will only hit harder and blah, blah, blah.” I rolled my eyes and wondered if my friend had no sense of humor, or was hitting innocent children really not funny? (My sense of humor lies pitch-perfectly between …

I have a strict rule against women wearing shorts after the age of 30. Nobody needs to see your (read: my) fleshy white cellulite thighs. Yes, there are some exceptions to the rule, but about 60 percent of women think they are the exception and only about 9 percent are. (These are actual statistics.) Being a good rule follower (and a bit of a teacher’s pet), I stopped wearing shorts when I was 24. I happily sweated it out in Capris or a long skirt. But because I made this rule in the ignorance of my youth, I failed to realize that as you age, your tolerance for heat shrinks to the size of an …