Forget TV or the internet; I blame friends with older sisters for the degradation of today’s youth. Before she started school, my daughter Molly was a little sweetheart, full of sunshine and flower petals. She adored me, and the feeling was mutual. However, thanks to the delinquency of her cronies, she’s turned into a regular sassypants. “Um, I don’t think so,” she quipped yesterday, when asked if she wanted beans for dinner. Later, I asked her to take the garbage out, and she rolled her eyes at me. Where the $^%&# did she learn that? I didn’t pull that nonsense on my own mother until I was fifteen! Although, to be fair, my mother would’ve strung me up by my toes if I’d tried that earlier. 

Friends with older sisters are carbon copies of their siblings, mimicking every move and nuance. How else do you explain Molly asking for pierced ears, or for an espresso from Starbucks? She’s not getting that from me – I’m not that cool. There’s one particular pal of hers whose sass verges on brattiness. Having Skylar over for playdates is always a test of patience. That girl bounces around my house like a wired-up lemur, smudging everything in her path. I’m happy that Molly has friends, but I’m happier to see certain friends leave. Skylar’s only redeeming quality is her self-awareness; she knows she’s a cheeky little monkey, but she also knows how far to push it. She’ll drag me right to end of my tether, then giggle and ask for more cookies. Bless her manipulative little heart!

I can’t blame friends and teenagers for all of Molly’s sass, though. She gets some of it from me! Sometimes, the tone of her voice matches mine so perfectly that I’m a little unnerved. Do I really sound like that? Let’s just hope little Andy doesn’t start the same thing, then I’d have TWO smart-alecky kids in the house. How would I ever survive? The sass would be off the charts! I’ll have to ask my mom for advice – god knows how she made it through my adolescence. That poor woman, dealing with two teenage, know-it-all girls. Hold on a second — I need to call her and beg for forgiveness!

With the sudden closure of my son Andy’s preschool, every day now takes 42 hours. I love my son, but his favorite game of “See How Loud I Can Scream” gets old quickly. His other favorite game, “Look How High I Can Throw Stuff” is equally annoying. His dirty blue and white socks are now part of the hallway light fixture. I do my best to engage him; we’ve been to the library, the park, and the playground nine times this week. How many times does it take before the park becomes boring? I don’t know, but it’s more than nine.

 So, when I heard of a free drop-in program for kids being run at a local school, I sped over there. Who knew minivans can corner like they’re on rails? It was early morning, and I hustled Andy inside, shoving loose cereal in his hands for breakfast. We walked into the classroom, and Andy’s pupils dilated. There were boxes of toys everywhere; colorful posters adorned the walls, and pillows and rugs dotted the floor. “Can I pway with dese?” he whispered in awe. “Yep, go ahead, buddy!” I answered. He shot off so fast he left a kid-sized cloud of dust.

 The program was run through the school district, the instructor told me. She was a lovely lady named Claudia, with a bright smile and a warm face. Andy and I were the first people to arrive, so she asked him some questions as he played with a train set. She didn’t get many answers, as my kid’s attention was riveted on his new playthings. For the next two hours, Andy was in heaven. “Dis is the best day eveerrrrrrrr!” he told me. When he found out he also got a free snack, his eyes almost popped out of his head. He’s like me; always excited about free food!

“Can we come back tomorrow?” Andy asked when it was time to leave. I laughed and told him it runs two days a week, but I promised him we’d be back next time. The rest of the day was peppered with questions like: “‘member the Legos, mama? And the snack? It was fwuit and I don’t WIKE fwuit so she gave me cereal.” I couldn’t help feeling a little guilty; Andy obviously craved stimulation, and, despite my best efforts, I felt like I failed. Sigh. Yet another aspect of parenting I could improve on. And guess what? I’ve got the next seven months to work on it. Next September, Andy starts kindergarten and he’ll be gone six hours a day. Maybe THEN I’ll have time to grab his socks from the chandelier!    

As I age (un)gracefully, I find myself following more and more of my mother’s superstitions. She had these quirky little sayings and doings that peppered my childhood, popping up like daisies throughout the years. Growing up in a less enlightened time, she learned them from her mother and then passed them on to me and my sister, Emma. I’ll sometimes do or say things from force of habit, because, to quote one of my favorite TV shows: “I’m not superstitious, I’m a little stitious”. The way things have been going in my life lately, I’d rather err on the side of caution!

“Don’t put bread on its back,” she told me once, “it makes the angels cry.” This one is strange. If angels exist, are they really so concerned with a bread loaf’s directional placement? Aren’t they busy playing harps and reclining on clouds? Does an alarm go off if bread is placed upside down, shattering their reverie? Who knows? Apparently my mother! Nevertheless, bread was always right-side-up in our kitchen, and we were never once visited by sobbing deities.

Some of mom’s ‘isms’ were more commonplace, like tossing spilled salt over your left shoulder. “Don’t walk under a ladder” is familiar, but that one just makes sense. Why risk getting whanged in the head with a hammer? Just walk around the ladder, and everyone’s happy. Mom’s wisdom only ran so far, however. Every year, she told us: “don’t spend money on January first, it’s bad luck. It means you’ll lose money the rest of the year.” I can attest that keeping my wallet closed for the first WEEK of a new year didn’t help my finances at all. Just being alive is expensive!

But why do I follow these outdated, old-fashioned superstitions? They have no evidence to back them up, no reason to exist besides “my mother said it and her mother, too”; but that’s reason enough for me. These silly, illogical fallacies make me feel closer to my mom, even though we live far apart. They make me feel closer to my grandmother, whom I only met once before she passed away. Heck, I’m even willing to keep my wallet closed this week in a bid to save money; it’s never worked before, but hey – it couldn’t hurt. Lately, all I’ve been is “a day late and a dollar short!”

It’s hard to be creative when you’re exhausted. At bedtime when I’ve tucked my two gremlins in, I just wanna sit in front of the TV and not think. I don’t want to comprehend or analyze; I want my brain shut off, and my dopamine level sky high. Despite the stories and scripts tumbling inside me, I’m unable to create. Why would I sit at my desk practicing good posture when I can lie in front of a screen like a fat, cozy slug? Actually, a slug probably has better posture than I.

Think of what I could accomplish if I had the energy of a squirrel, instead of a rheumatic turtle. My books would be splashed all over best-seller lists! My poems would sweep the nation! Instead, everything remains locked inside my brain while I cram another bag of cheese puffs in my mouth. Exhaustion is bad for the mind AND body, it seems.

Yesterday, I was determined to break the cycle. Molly and Andy were both watered and fed and stuffed in the living room. They had enough crayons to paint the Mona Lisa and had access to the TV. I blew the dust off my desk and sat down, resolved to write the greatest book mankind has ever known. Like a pianist at his instrument, I raised my hands to type and BAM. Reality struck.

“MOOOOOOOM, she’s TEASING ME!” screeched little Andy.

“I AM NOT! DON’T BE A TATTLE TALE!” shrieked Molly in response.

With a sigh, I pushed away from my desk, marched into the living room, and sent the fighters to their separate corners. If I thought that was the end of it, the joke was on me. Here’s a brief sample of the next half hour:

4:37 pm – Andy wanders in and says he wants yogurt. Yogurt is dutifully retrieved and opened for him.

4:39 pm – Molly walks in and politely asks for her ponytail to be taken out. Elastics are removed from her hair, and she’s sent on her way.

4:43 pm – Andy wants another yogurt. The answer is no.

4:48 pm – Andy opened another yogurt and spilled it on himself, the floor, and the dog.

4:49 to 5:13 – Andy and the dog are shoved into the tub and unceremoniously rinsed off. My son’s soiled clothes are put in the washing machine, the yogurt is wiped off the floor, and I desperately need a drink.

5:14 – It’s time to start dinner. My writing is abandoned, and I lose ever more of my sanity.

My best bet is to sneak pockets of time whenever I can. Three minutes here, twelve seconds there. Lyrics and ideas are scrawled on napkins, envelopes, and newspapers; my first project should be complete when I’m a spry sixty-year-old. Sigh. “There’s no rest for the wicked,” as the saying goes, so I must be dreadfully depraved. Hope abounds, though – I found a distraction-free time to focus. I’m writing this at midnight!

Since I’m now a stress-riddled adult, Christmas is a hectic time of year. The magic of the season has been upended because I’M the one creating it (excepting Santa’s part, naturally). I knock myself out so my kids, Molly, and Andy, have days full of happy memories and fun activities. Maybe they’ll remember warming their fingers on cups of hot chocolate, or baking cookies while snow falls outside. I certainly remember those things from when I was a kid, many moons ago. I don’t remember struggling to zip up my jeans, though. Or wondering why my bank account was overdrawn. This period is hard on the ol’ waistline and wallet, especially since I have little to no self-control. In all its calorie-laden glory, tis the season for overindulging.

“Try our new peppermint-flavored pickles!” screams the poster at the grocery store. “How about candy-cane flavored salami?” shrieks the ad on the radio. Ugh. I’ll try some peppermint-flavored aspirin, how’s THAT for Christmas spirit? The holidays are all about excess, from gift buying to debt loading to overeating and beyond. And I fall for it every time! I can’t resist another aperitif when we’re visiting with our friends. Sure, I ate an entire shrimp cocktail, but who’s counting? OF COURSE, I need to buy an inflatable reindeer, my lawn is so barren! Stop the car, the thrift store is having a HALF-OFF SALE! See what I mean? Temptation lurks at every corner!

Even IF I had restraint, I can only hold out for so long. This year, the dollar store put Christmas displays out before Halloween. How is that even fair? How can I withstand twelve weeks of constant pressure? I fold faster than an origami crane, stuffing my arms with tinsel, glitter, and sparkly doodads. I’m a sucker for sparkle.

So, why do I torture myself, season after season? Why do I put myself in debt and suffer unnecessary stress? I know why. Because it’s a joy seeing Andy’s little face light up when he unwraps a new toy. It’s the wonder on Molly’s face when she watches the first snowfall of the year. It’s the smile on my husband Jeremy’s face when he watches the kids making smores in the fireplace. It’s all the little things that add up to one wonderful holiday — excess and all. You could say the Christmas spirit is with me all the time, because I spend the next twelve months paying off my credit card!

Frazzled mom Sarah and her husband Jeremy are at the dinner table, desperately trying to get their kids, Molly and Andy, to eat anything. It’s going well — like trying to teach hyenas to bellydance.

Andy: “What IS dis? I don’t wike it!”

Sarah: “It’s chicken strips, Andy. It’s the same thing you ate last night, remember?”

Andy: “NO. I didn’t eat it. And I don’t WIKE IT.”

Sarah: “Okay, pal. Try some of the peas instead.”

Molly: “I HATE peas!”

Andy: “Yeah, me too!”

Jeremy: (Sigh). Just try it, okay? It’s good for you and you’re gonna like it.”

Andy: “I want yogurt.”

Sarah: “If….. look at me! IF you eat some healthy chicken, I’ll think about giving you yogurt, got it?”

Andy: “YAAYYY!! Yogurt!”

Sarah: “You’ve gotta eat some chicken, though! Did you hear what I said?”

Andy is oblivious as he carefully stabs a chicken piece, and shoves it in his mouth, grinding his teeth on his fork.

Jeremy: “Molly! Get back in your seat!”

Molly: (From the kitchen) “I’m getting a glass of milk!”

Jeremy: “That doesn’t take fourteen minutes! Get your butt back here!”

Molly re-enters the dining room, carrying a dangerously full glass of milk.

Sarah: “Did you really need that much milk, Molly?”

Molly: “What? I’m thirsty!”

Andy: “I wanna gwass of milk!”

Sarah: “You have water! You drink that first.”

Andy: (Sulks)

Sarah: “So, how was school? Did anything funny happen?”

Molly: “No.”

Sarah: “What did you do today?”

Molly: “Nothing.”

Sarah: “Huh. So, you sat on your butt and stared at the wall for six hours?”

Molly: (Eye roll) “Mooooooommmm”.

A distant crash and thud are heard from the kitchen, followed by a glub-glub sound. Unbeknownst to the adults, Andy snuck into the kitchen for milk. Jeremy and Sarah rush over and find Andy, starfished on the floor, surrounded by a white puddle of four liters of spilled milk.

Sarah: “Oh Andy, for goodness’ sake!”

Jeremy: (Groans) “Just take him to the tub. I’ll get the mop.”

Dinner is abandoned. Molly heads for the TV, Andy’s dragged to the tub, and Teddy, the family dog, snuffs under the table for scraps. Sarah is elbow deep in milk-covered clothes and soap, when Andy looks up with his big owl eyes and says:

Andy: “Can I have yogurt…. now?”

I’ve decided I’m done with adulthood. I’m as frazzled as permed hair from the eighties. This past month I’ve dealt with traffic violations, leaky pipes, and insurance claims, and I’m dog-tired. I’m so far past the end of my rope that if I reached out all I’d grab is loose threads. My last nerve is so frayed, it’s shooting sparks and about to self-immolate. I’m tellin’ ya, I’m done!

Adulthood is exhausting (actually, being a human is exhausting, but that’s a discussion for another time). I was in such a rush to grow up when I was a kid. “When I grow up,” I thought, “I’m gonna have everything figured out, and I’ll finally be happy.” My biggest concern was whether my mansion would be on the beach, or in a forest. What no one told that bright-eyed and hopeful little girl is that absolutely no one knows what they’re doing. Every single adult is just winging it, and somehow society functions as a whole. If my kids knew that I’m improvising every day of their lives, their tiny little minds would be blown. Nobody tell them I don’t know how to raise kids!

What I’d love most is to be as worry-free as a child. I’d love to make a mess and assume it’ll be cleaned up. I’d love to dump an entire bowl of Cheerios in the sink and wait for the dish fairy to take care of it. Why can’t my dirty laundry just magically clean and fold itself, like it does for my kids? I don’t want to worry about bills and mortgages; I wanna see how far I can jump from the top of the swing set! Kid Sarah would nail the landing; Adult Sarah would shatter both knees.

Alas, it’s not to be. The only good thing about growing up is that I choose my own bedtime, and occasionally have candy bars for breakfast (although my guts will pay for that later!) “Enjoy right now!” I tell my kids, “the whole world is at your fingertips!” I tuck them into bed at night, and their angelic faces are soft and untroubled. When I finally collapse in bed, I look like a gargoyle. “Youth is wasted on the young,” as the saying goes, and I’m starting to agree. I’d go back and do things differently if I could; for starters, I’d appreciate the dish and laundry fairy more (hats off to my own dear mom!)

My kids are fantastic sleepers, and it’s the one thing I pat myself on the back for. After the agonies of midnight breastfeeding, and the torture of sleep training, Andy and Molly both sleep soundly through the night. Isn’t that amazing? I’m smug and full of pride; I didn’t read all those parenting books for nothing! I can count on getting at least six hours of continuous sleep. Mornings, however, are becoming a sticking point. Parents can never have it all, can we?

Andy’s an early riser, which is great on school days, and not so great on weekends. Last Saturday, I was deep in the bowels of a complicated dream, when the ‘click’ of a light switch jolted me awake. Confused and grumpy, I heard the toilet flush loudly, followed by the sound of rushing water. Convinced the bathroom was flooding, I forced myself up and stumbled down the hall, squinting and grumbling. I wasn’t prepared to find Andy, shirtless and soaking wet, splashing his hands in the sink. “Andy, what’s going on?” I whispered. “I was goin’ pee an’ I washed my hands an’ my shirt got wet so I took it off!” he chirped happily. “That’s great buddy. Let’s go back to bed, okay?” He looked at me curiously: “but it’s morning! I wanna get up!” I herded him back to his room, put dry pjs on him, and said “yes, sweetie, but it’s five in the morning. Mommy needs more sleep, or she’ll turn into a dragon.” Despite his protests, I closed his door and lurched back to my room. Have you ever tried to sleep while a marching band practices next door? I daresay the band would’ve been quieter than Andy. Random thumps and weird noises kept me awake for the next hour. What in the name of monkeys was going on in his room? Was he practicing the trombone?

I’ve never been an early riser, even in my youth. Early birds are chumps, in my opinion. Who wants to get up at the crack of dawn to catch worms, when you can sleep in and have burgers for lunch? (Hey, I should put that quote on a t-shirt!) Andy is just like his dad, Jeremy, who’s ready to go once his feet touch the ground. I need at least three cups of coffee before I can form complete sentences. Unless I get an espresso machine installed on my nightstand, my mornings will always be sluggish and slow. I wish I had my son’s ‘get up and go,’ but let’s face it: he’s a gassed up Corvette and I’m a broken down jalopy. I’ve been running on empty for years!

There’s a saying: “bad things happen in threes”, and today I got the whole trifecta. After dropping Molly at school, Andy and I were heading home, when I saw flashing lights in my rearview mirror. “That’s odd,” I thought, and pulled over to let the police car pass. Surely the cop wasn’t pulling ME over, a law abiding, rule following, tax paying citizen! Imagine my surprise when I stopped my minivan, and the squad car stopped too! What had I done wrong? “Morning,” the officer said as I rolled down my window, “you didn’t come to a complete stop at that last stop sign,” he told me. WHAT?? Really? To my horror, he was completely right! I’d only slowed down and rolled through. Gah, could I BE a bigger idiot? I stuttered as I gave him my license and insurance information. What a dismal way to start the day; but, as it turns out, much, MUCH worse things were to come. Talk about foreshadowing, eh?

As I sat cursing my existence, the officer returned with more bad news. “Did you know your insurance is expired?” he asked. OH, COME ON, NOW YOU’RE JUST JOKING!. “Oh my gosh, what?? I’m so sorry, I had no idea!” I blurted. “So unfortunately, I can’t let you drive this vehicle anymore. Why don’t you pull into this parking lot, and we’ll figure things out?” the officer instructed. With shaking hands, I crawled forward at the speed of an arthritic turtle and parked. I called my husband Jeremy, who would now have to pick Andy and me up and drive us home. He’ll be thrilled. After a relatively mild string of curses, he said he’d drive home, switch out of his work van, and pick us up in his truck. Ten minutes later, as he pulled up beside me, the officer walked up with even worse news. Turning to Jeremy, he said “so your license is actually expired.” WHAT IN THE BIZARRO WORLD WAS HAPPENING?? Jeremy’s face looked like a smacked mackerel. At this point, the tragedy was too much; we’d passed the point of inconvenience and slammed headfirst into comedy. I started giggling; quietly at first, then louder and louder until I was laughing uncontrollably. “Oh no, it’s just so awful! What’s going on? Was there a full moon last night?” I gasped. It really was just horribly funny. To my eternal relief, the officer smiled! “Here’s what we’re gonna do,” he said, “I’ll write you a ticket for failing to stop, and a warning for not having insurance on the van. You drive your husband’s insured truck straight to the insurance office and renew the papers on the van and your license. Everything’s piling up here, and that’s the best I can do.” Sputtering our thanks, Jeremy and I transferred little Andy and our grumpy dog Teddy from the van into the truck, then, with me behind the wheel, drove to the insurance office. Did I mention it was pouring rain this whole time? So not only was I supremely agitated, but I was also soaked to the skin. Do bad things ever happen on sunny days?

Finally, our terrible morning came to an end. Jeremy got all the paperwork in order, and we were able to LEGALLY drive our vehicles back home. Andy was babbling about how we “got awessted!” and I was in desperate need of a drink. So, what did I learn? Number one: adulting is hard. Number two: keep on top of important dates, and number three: never, EVER, ROLL THROUGH A #$@#^%$# STOP SIGN!

Seven-year-old Molly has convinced her mother, Sarah, to bring their pet hamster into class for Show and Tell. She walks into the class, and twenty pairs of owl eyes stare at her eagerly. Poor Sarah has no idea what she’s getting into!

Sarah: “Hi guys! This is Sprinkles! Does anyone know what type of rodent he is?”

Girl 1: “I know! He’s a gerbil!”

Sarah: “That’s a good guess, but Sprinkles is actually a hamster. Who can tell me –”

Boy 1: “His name’s SPRINKLES? I bet it’s cuz he pees like a sprinkler! HAHAHAHAH!”

Sarah: “Er, okay. So, a cool thing about hamsters is –”

Girl 2: “I had a hamster when I was a baby but my mom said it went to live on a farm with some cows.”

Girl 2a: “No, she said it fell down the vent and the heater was on and it esploded.”

Sarah: “Do you two live together?”

Girl 2 and 2a: “We’re twins.”

Sarah: “………………Okay. So anyways, hamsters are nocturnal. Who knows what that means?”

Boy 8: “It means they sleep in the day and run around at night.”

Sarah: “Good job, that’s right!”

Boy 4: “Like vampires?”

Sarah: “Um, not really.”

Girl 5: “I was a vampire for Halloween. Except I had fairy wings an’ I was a fairy.”

Girl 1: “I was a princess an’ I ate so much candy I barfed!”

Sarah: “Right, so, hamsters—”

Boy 7: “Mom? I mean, missus Molly’s mom?”

Sarah: “Yes?”

Boy 7: “Do um, do hamsters……. Um, do they like….. um…. Do they like hot dogs?”

Sarah: “No, probably not.”

Boy 7: “Do YOU like hot dogs?”

Sarah: “Uh-huh. Anyways, who knows what hamsters like to eat?”

Boy 3: “I saw my hamster eat his own poop!”

Entire class: “EWWWWWWWWWWWW!!”

Molly (horrified): “Mom, does Sprinkles eat his own poop?”

Sarah: (exasperated) “I don’t…… I mean, I haven’t…..”

Girl 7: “I have to go peeeeeee.”

Thankfully, Miss Harris swoops in like an avenging angel.

Miss Harris: “Okay, class, let’s all thank Molly’s mom for bringing in the hamster!”

Everyone: “Thaaaaaaaaaaank youuuuuuuuuuu.”

Sarah grabs the hamster’s cage, and walks to the door, her head spinning.

Sarah: (to Miss Harris) “I don’t know how you do it.”

Miss Harris (smiles): “I often wonder that myself!”