people are crazy. the whole world’s gone crazy. we’ve got war in this corner and the Olympics in that. we’re fighting for the gold over here and fighting for our lives over there. pick a spot. there is triumph and joy and hatred and murder going on there.

africa is starving to death and we did it. they have rich, fertile ground and life-giving rain and still they are burying their babies with distended bellies and wailing “Allahu akbar” while wringing their hands. it’s like feeding the wild animals. if you feed them, they stop looking for ways to feed themselves. i’m going to get letters for comparing the people in africa to wild animals. but so are we all. not getting letters i mean, but wild animals. we’re just a different species. still feral. still driven by base instincts. still uncivilized. i read it today. not the animals part, but the part about africa. a bunch of celebrities who hate themselves decided in the eighties to end world hunger and in doing so they sang some crappy songs and damned africa to a life (and death) of dependency. it’s ironic. don’t you think?

i’m in california and i want to go home. i don’t like it here. it’s ugly and people don’t know how to drive and i don’t get why everything is called rancho something something or canyon something drive. everything. even the deadend streets sound like gated communities. there are lawn chairs and sleeping bags and clothes strewn about the freeway. just forgotten items left by the side of the road. no one is interested in claiming them. or cleaning them up. i saw a babyseat. a car seat? for a baby? it was sitting beside the freeway. melting in the sun. there was no baby in it. just the seat. though it would not have surprised me. there is trash and ugly, scorched, brown earth everywhere. there are no speed limit signs that read anything under 45mph and in spite of that people either drive 5 MPH or 100 MPH. there is no happy medium. you take your life into your own hands. it is understood.

if you hold the door for someone or let them in in traffic they stare at you like a lunatic, trying to figure your angle. they are angry at you for it. be predictable. don’t be human. that makes them uncomfortable.

the women wear hardly any clothes. no matter the age. and they are all suntanned to the color of burnt cornflakes. i worry about their health. people aren’t supposed to be that color. it isn’t natural. i’ve seen more 50-something year old cougars wearing spandex and short shorts and halter tops than it is reasonable to see in one lifetime and yet i am the only one nonplussed by it.

russia and georgia can’t play nice. i read a forum thread where a guy in georgia expressed his fear at being bombed. he could find no news on the invasion. why is the media keeping this quiet? he lived in atlanta, georgia. not the other georgia. but he knows of nothing outside of himself. then they pounced on him, the other forum visitors. they called him every name in the book and then some. they figuratively ripped him limb from limb. no one stopped and said, “comfort, brother. peace. be still. you are simply confused. and on the wrong continent.”

being hateful is easier. and more en vogue. speaking comfort is not.

construction in california is like the setting of the sun. constant and predictable. you cannot get here from there. the road no longer exists. it is now rancho canyon verde copper hill cliffside drive and it will be finished in a hundred years from now when you no longer need to go that way anymore.

there are health signs everywhere. they won’t clean up the streets or do anything about the death trap highways and the lunatic people who drive on them but they will post a sticker, a placard, a warning over every possible surface reminding you that cigarette smoking causes cancer, lead is deadly and most likely in your drinking water, trans fats are used in the recipes served in the kitchen of the dining establishment in which you are about to dine, recycling is good for the planet and the consumption of alcohol will most likely lead to birth defects and low birth weight and mental retardation and possibly government office. don’t worry. you may get shot on the freeway. you may strangle on the fumes of the pollution. you may melt in the unforgiving sun and you may develop ten kinds of skin cancer, but you will never, never be able to say they didn’t warn you not to eat at marie callenders, you fat, stupid human. read the signs. it’s all they got. it’s the only idea they got.

i have heard three different mothers tell their children to shut up. i saw one mother slap her toddler in the department store. i saw one boy, aged 6 or 7, so incredibly hyper and over-stimulated that he literally seemed to be having some kind of fit. i was genuinely concerned for his safety. and the safety of the ten year old brother who was trying to hold him on his lap while mom and dad stood outside and leisurely talked and unloaded the car into the hotel and — you know, just generally ignored the ear-shattering screams and wails of their child who was obviously in need of attention. or ritalin. or a sedative of some sort.

i am in the depths of despair.

i miss my boys. jacob is starting high school next month and i am too young and he is too young and time is getting away from me. it is fucking me without the benefit of dinner and dessert first. i look at him and i cannot see a high schooler. i still see disney and spongebob and movies rated G. i still see power rangers and hot wheels and a sippie cup full of milk. i cannot fathom the acne or facial hair making their first appearances. i cannot wrap my head around him being a teenager. i have to shut that one out.

i am working too much and missing too much and i want to go home. i hate hotels and i hate the road and i hate, i hate, i hate giving up precious time with them to earn a buck. i want to go home. i don’t want to be here. i want to go home.

i have to say this, and there’s no one here to hear it.

i’m not stupid.

that even though the boys are now 13 and 14 years old, I still sneak into their rooms sometimes to watch the blankets move up and down.

Sometimes, if I can’t tell, I’ll place my hand on their back. Just to feel it rise and fall.

I have to reassure myself that they are still breathing.

Like, for instance, just this morning.

Jacob went to a BBQ today. It was with his girlfriend and her parents. I met them when I dropped him off at their house. Nice folks. And little Miss M is just a cutie, with her silky, red hair and sweet little fourteen year old smile behind those braces. Oh yeah, she could be trouble.

Nonetheless, I was all for the BBQ because since I began homeschooling the boys, I’ve been concerned about them having enough social interaction.

I dropped him off around one pm.

I didn’t get worried until around six when I realized he had been there for five hours and still no call to pick him up. I let it go. Then came seven. Then eight. Look, I am a cool mom, people. I remember 14. I don’t want to embarrass him. But seven hours? What kind of BBQ is this on a Sunday night?

I nonchalantly called her mom. “Uh, yeah, Hi, this is Jake’s mom? Is he…is everything okay?” I didn’t really think about what I was going to say until it was too late to think of something, okay? I stammered through it like a moron.

Of course everything was okay. But they were just sitting down to eat. They were a little busy with other activities that, hopefully, did not include leaving two 14-year-olds alone to explore the birds and the bees…

I asked to speak to Jake. Look, I realize that might be insulting…but you don’t know me. I’m crazier than the entire Jackson clan all rolled in one. I had horrible images of him being bound and gagged, turning on the spit over the fire in their front yard. I don’t know why my mind goes to the places it does. I’m not saying it makes any sense, okay? It’s just the way it is.

He comes on the line. He’s fine. I’m clearly a spaz. I hang up.

9:30 he FINALLY, FINALLY calls. They’re ready for me to pick him up.

There’s no point to this story except that I FINALLY, FINALLY got to say, on the way home: “You know, WHEN I WAS A KID, we never spent 8 hours at a boyfriend’s house for a BBQ. We weren’t even ALLOWED boyfriends. We weren’t even allowed BBQs. We weren’t even allowed to eat. It was all work, all the time. Uphill. Both ways. In the snow.”

He was very impressed. I could tell.

Oh look, what do we have here? Funny that I would stumble on this…at this particular point in time.

Oh my god! And I almost forgot. This also happened:

Matt was surfing the web and he came across some website that talked about robot hookers. Seriously. They’re like animatronic blow up dolls and men have sex with them. So there were some questions on this site. Does that constitute cheating? What if you walked in on it and witnessed it? Would that bother you? Would you be more or less upset if it was a celebrity lookalike robotic hooker? What if it looked like someone you both know?

I am not lying to you, these are the types of conversations we get into.

So he, of course, pressed me to answer them. I told him I thought it was basically just another form of masturbation, so I wouldn’t be particularly bothered by it, so long as it DIDN’T resemble anyone we know. Besides, sex machines for women have been around forever and I don’t hear anyone grumbling about that. That’s basically what it is. A sex machine.

But then, we were watching some SNL clips and a parody commercial came on. It was for the new Mercury Mistress, car that is so sexy and so responsive, you will definitely want to have sex with it. Then it goes on to show a guy revealing the fleshlight built into the car’s trunk. Hilarity ensues.

So of course the commercial ends and this happens:

Matt: “I bet a woman wrote that. But a lot of men are sitting around going, hey, you know whaaaaat…..?”

I stare at him in silence.

“Cause, you know, I’ve seen some cars I thought were really sexy. ”

I stare harder.

“Uh, as in…I wouldn’t mind having sex with them?”

At this point I swallow my tongue and tell him, “Look, a robotic hooker that looks nothing like anyone we know is one thing, but if you so much as TOUCH our cars I am going to be very cross!”

He laughed, but I could tell. He had thought about it. He was thinking about it then.

I cook and clean. That’s what I do. It’s what I’m best at. I’ve been doing it for 14 years, without stopping once. I cook and clean in my sleep. Yep. I’m a cooker and a cleaner.

I realize that it’s a mother’s job and we do it with suuuuch selflessness and love we should be canonized. Try telling my family that.

I went to Colorado for a week on business. I hate coming home to a messy house, so I cleaned it well before leaving. I then left strict instructions for it to remain clean until I got home.

hahahahahahahaha! Were funnier words ever spoken?? I came home to a house that looked as if Lindsay Lohan had just come through after a night on the town. There were dishes overflowing in the sink. The bath was somehow, inexplicably black, like someone had washed a tar dog in there and didn’t bother to clean up afterwards. The living room contained every single item in our house, all strewn about the couch and love seat, and I kid you not, the walls. I’m not sure, but I think I might have had an extra kid running around under the clutter. I hope he found his way home.

So I did what any rational mom would do. I went to bed. I had to leave Colorado at 4:30 in the morning and now it was nearly five PM. I was exhausted and sore from so much time on the plane, not to mention the week spent in meetings and seminars and dinners and luncheons and brunches and cocktail parties.

But when I woke up the next morning I felt refreshed and decided to tackle the house. Since hope springs eternal, I decided to ask the boys to pitch in and help out. That was when the fireworks started. I honestly think I blacked out at one point. What I got was, “Awwwww, that’s not faaaaair.”

Now, I don’t know about you, but there are certain phrases that send me into an angry, vile frenzy. The top of that list is “That’s not fair” or any variation thereof. Life isn’t fair, bucko. Deal with it. Better you should start to accept it now than to grow up and find out the hard way. I don’t handle that phrase well. It epitomizes, to me, all that is wrong with the world today.

I took a deep breath and tried to push away the red. “Okay. Fine. Don’t help. I’ll do it myself.”

Now there are few forces more powerful on this earth than mommy-guilt. If they could figure out a way to harness the power of mother-induced guilt they could easily solve the energy crisis. They saw the look in my face and knew, instantly, the vultures were circling. They both were more than eager to help at that point. They backpedaled and proclaimed loudly that they didn’t really mean it. Of course they would help. Jacob even gave me a “Really, mom. I LIKE to clean!” and then I fell over laughing. No, I didn’t want that kind of help. I don’t want to guilt them into it. I pushed them out of the kitchen and began cleaning.

Every two seconds they came back in, begging to help. Literally? They were begging. I went off on a rant about how I felt it very little to ask, given the amount of work I do around here, not to mention my full time job and did I bring them something from Colorado? Yes, I sure did. Just like I brought them something from Vegas and Santa Fe and Orlando and every other place I’ve traveled in the past eight years. Did I make them brownies before leaving so they would have a nice, homemade snack even though I would be gone because Matt’s idea of cooking involves either fast food menus or Hamburger Helper? I seem to remember a nice hot pan of brownies wrapped up on the counter when I left. Did I not help them both clean their rooms just prior to my departure, despite the fact that no human should ever be subjected to the bedroom of a teenage boy? I believe I did. Did I not just have surgery a mere two weeks ago and I still have incisions and I am pretty sore and tired because of it? I recall that happening. By this time they were writhing in guilt. Writhing in it!

I decided to give in. Now the guilt was on the other foot. I felt horrible for being that mom. Against my better judgment we finished the house together. And by finished the house, I do mean they basically did what they felt would be the bare minimum they could get away with until I released them to go…I don’t know, practice the occult in the dark privacy of their own rooms, or whatever it is teenage boys do.

So clearly the guilt went away and they were fine with it. Not true for me. I owe Jacob $20 and there’s been a note on the bulletin board for over a week. (Hey, I’ve been out of town, okay???) So tonight, when I was going by there I noticed he had added, “But you don’t have to pay me if you don’t want to.”

AGH! They win every time. EVERY TIME! Do they take classes in this stuff?? Seriously?

I read this bit about the “Sesame Street” Monsters on another site, that also found it on another site and linked it up. See how responsible I am about crediting? Source. Original Source. Done.

Anyway, it’s bloody brilliant. I didn’t see it coming at all.

They are all monsters, that’s the point. The show is for children, don’t forget. They are monsters the kids don’t have to fear. The show’s message for kids was “We know you’re sometimes afraid of monsters, but not all monsters are bad.

Sometimes monsters can be cute and cuddly and quirky and funny. Elmo’s a monster and he has such a cute giggle!. These are the good monsters.

Not like the monster sitting next to you on the sofa, watching the TV. Not like the monster WHO TOLD YOU FOR THE LAST TIME TO STOP CRYING.

Not like the monsters who kick your toys and curse under their breath. Not like the monsters who say you stole their youth and take pills because YOU’RE DRIVING ME CRAZY. Not like the monsters who meet strange men at the door and leave you home alone. Not like the monsters who hit with their hands, or their words. Not like the monsters who come into your room at night stinking of whiskey and sweat, with madness in their eyes and a belt in their hands.

On Sesame Street, the monsters have not HAD ENOUGH, and they aren’t doing it FOR YOUR OWN GOOD.

Your monsters are not brought to you by the number 4 or the letter M. Your monsters don’t want you to come and play, they want you to LEAVE THEM ALONE.

Cookie monster is safe, and so are Elmo and the Count. Even Oscar and Bert are your friends even if they are bit grouchy or fussy. Your monsters think our monsters are harmless.

To them.

Your monsters bought you a Tickle-Me Elmo doll, didn’t they? They bought it to JUST SHUT YOU UP ALREADY. So they let you play with Elmo and make him laugh and giggle. But Elmo doesn’t just laugh and giggle. Elmo loves you, and he listens.

And he records.

And soon, Elmo is going to tell you exactly what to do.

Kaileb told me the other day that whenever he thinks of our president, he thinks of Poe. Like Poe is a dog version of President Bush and vice versa.

This is President Bush:

This is Poe:

President Bush:

Poe:

Maybe the kid is on to something?

My boys are good boys. I say this, not because I’m their mother and I am one hundred percent biased in their favor, but because it’s true. I know from rotten kids. My kids aren’t rotten. They are respectful to me and other people, they rarely get in trouble and when they do it’s for minor, normal kid stuff, and they can still be controlled by my patented evil mom stare when they start to push the line. All in all, it’s good.

Lately, however, my patience has been tested. This house has been resembling scenes from RAW WWF and I’m I’ve about had it. They go through these phases where they can’t stand each other. Neither one can say a single word cause the other is going to find fault with it. Every gesture, every glance is interpreted as a dangerous threat to their very existence. I’m ready to put them up on Craigslist. This could be happening. They could end up for sale on the internet. I’m that fed up.

In utter exasperation, I’ve begun taking things from them. Little privileges. It started out with their favorite online game. Gone. Can’t play it no matter how much they beg. Next went the Xbox 360. I think that’s when I started getting their attention. That’s when I got the first double take. When they bicker and fight in the evening I put them to bed. They’re not toddlers. They don’t go to bed at 7:30. Unless they bicker and fight. They aren’t happy about it. They are not going gentle into that good night. I don’t care.

Except that I do. No matter how much I feel in the pit of me that I’m doing the right thing, it’s still hard. I try to convince myself of the quick passage of time and the urgency at hand. It’s fleeting! I’m running out. I only have so many years left to shape and mold. To teach and reach. Only a few short years left to be any kind of influence. I better make it a good one. I believe in the power of my actions (and reactions) in their lives. I believe that the people they are now are but early foundations for the people they will one day become. What will it say about me, the people they become?

This is no small feat. No easy task. I appreciate the challenge. But when my blood pressure goes down and I’m no longer seeing red over the latest dust up, it’s hard to maintain. I keep thinking about what a bad mom I am. I keep thinking I’m so mean. I keep thinking they’re going to hate me. I keep worrying I’m scarring them for life. I keep thinking I’m killing them. Killing them. This is where my mind goes when I get weak. This is how crazy I can get.

But the part of me that is still sane and not dead but only crouching in a corner trying not to be crushed by my insanity knows better. That part of me reasons me down. Brings me around to the light. It whispers, quietly, that I am in the right place. I’m heading in the right direction and I just have to soldier on. It confides in me that they are good, smart boys and I am not killing them, but loving them. I am loving them enough to hurt them. I am loving them enough to set limits and enforce rules. I am loving them enough to bear their eyes, boring into me, delivering judgment. I am loving them enough to brave the guilt trips and silent treatments. I am loving them like no one else has ever loved them before, or ever will. I am doing right by them. I just have to be patient and strong. I just have to hang on.

And that’s what I’ll do. I close my eyes against the fear and listen to that voice, finding comfort in her words. I stick to my guns and take one for the team. I tuck them in, let them know I still love them, and walk away. I won’t entertain talks of why it isn’t fair. I won’t bargain or be manipulated. I will stick to my word and walk away.

That’s the number one, without a doubt, most horrible/wonderful thing about being a parent: learning when to walk away.