I lost it today.  I didn’t realize how pissed off I really was. And then, I lost it.

It started with dinner last night. The dinner part was great, but I had two glasses of wine. Lately, I’ve been feeling tired and foggy and grumpy; it’s time to remove the culprits. Night eating is easy to ditch.  So is passing on dessert.  Alcohol, on the other hand, might be trickier. Alcohol is a big boy bother. So delicious in the first hour, and after that you pay and pay, with indigestion and inefficient sleep, wasting time detoxifying instead of repairing cells. We are born with a limited biological budget; you want to spend it on building gardens or controlling riots?

Husband comes in to wake me up. It’s 11 o’clock; he’s been up for hours. He lies down on the bed facing me and begins the Dog Food Lecture:  We should be rotating dog food to reduce potential for nutritional deficiencies.  Extended periods of deficiency can cause allergies.  Also, dogs need variety, just like humans.  Imagine eating the same thing, day in and day out?  

We have two dogs. One dog is a piranha, eating whatever, whenever.  But, the other one… well, he’s a tender sort— a slow, patient eater.   Whoever heard of it?  In 6 years, the piranha never missed one meal. This week, however, she’s been sick; so now both dogs aren’t eating.  I’ve been awake for 7 minutes, now.

When the Dog Food Lecture concludes, we head downstairs. I discover that my son finished the milk I was planning to use to make the Men of the House their Breakfast Event. Spoil the men every weekend with The Breakfast Event:  today features stacks of pancakes, fruit smoothies, pounds of bacon, and the good OJ—no pulp and no Calcium.

So, now the pancake recipe needs revision. While I’m deciding how to fake cakes, husband and I begin discussing the impending snowstorm.  Up to a foot of snow is predicted in some spots, and our house always qualifies as “some spot.”  We’re at the top of a cold and thirsty ridge that loves to consume snow and extend winter by about a month.  It’s odd, driving to work in Putney, there will be a foot of snow at our house; yet, by the time I reach I-91, it’s raining.

Now, a foot of snow in Vermont ain’t making today’s headlines. It may not even warrant a Facebook comment. But, a foot of snow in October…well, that’s news enough. It is certainly log enough for the house fire that’s brewing.

Impending foot of snow reminds us that: a) the plow needs to be put on the truck and b) we have not sealed a deal with the fellow who manages our Class IV road. This means that no one is plowing the mile of steep, narrow winding road that connects us to the rationale universe. This wouldn’t be so bad, considering that the steep, narrow, winding road continues downhill past our house and ends in a mere half-mile, onto the main road. Except. Except that old Irene took out the bridge below that connects the half-mile to said main road (and rational universe).  So, there’s only one way out, and in about 5 hours, it is covered with 12 inches.  And, ain’t no one plowing it.

I begin making breakfast.  We’ve run out of frozen berries for the smoothies.  Precious Flower (read:  teenager) prefers variety in his smoothie— more than just banana. I plop some raspberry jam into the mix and hope he doesn’t catch on. 

I discover some leftover Pumpkin Pie filling and, huzzah, we have Pumpkin Pancakes on Halloween weekend.  As the batter rises, I head into the office to speak with husband. I glance out and see our unfinished Hoop House in the front yard. For months, we planned (read:  I nagged, while husband nodded) on building a Hoop house, so we could extend our microscopic growing season that Vermont categorizes as, “summer.”  A Hoop House offers greens, herbs, and seedlings. Spring in April?  A girl can dream.  Husband claims to wants one too; but, in his words, “I want to do it right,” which every wife understands to mean, “I’m planning to never get around to it.” 

So, there’s a foot of snow on the way, no way out, a Dog Food Rotation crisis, and no milk or fruit for The Breakfast Event.  We are about to have our first Nor’easter, and we haven’t even had our first frost.  I’m staring at the Hoop House Skeleton—the large empty structure crouches on the front lawn, blocking our front door.  Looking at it makes my eye twitch, so I return to the kitchen and start cooking.  As I pour the first pancake, husband cries, “Suze!”  I return to the office, where he attempts consolation.  “Who needs a Hoop House?  Use the desk, here.  Grow all the lettuce you want.”

There’s no way to respond to this without burning breakfast.  It’s tempting, but instead, I head back to the kitchen and flip a pancake.   I’m finding my groove, flipping cakes.  Pounds of bacon are stacked in the oven, and the smoothies are blended.  The Breakfast Event is about to begin.  The dogs still haven’t touched their food.  I notice that it’s starting to snow.  I grab the oven door handle, and the handle snaps off. 

The oven handle has been broken for years.  Husband fixed it several times, and several times, it broke off.  This is not a Code Red situation.  On its own, I might demurely remark, “oh,” in a surprised way, prop the handle in an upright position, lean it against the cabinet, and open the oven with the protruding metal knob thingie at the end of the handle bar.  The oven opens just fine this way.  Then later, when I’m through cooking, husband repairs handle with some glue that eventually erodes, causing the handle to fall off again, at an undetermined but predictable amount of time. 

I grab the handle, and it snaps off in my left hand.  My right hand holds a spatula that cradles a newborn pancake.  The handle snaps and falls, disrupting my balance.  The pancake tumbles into the semi-open oven door, into the bottom crevice, where it wedges between the floor and bottom rack.  It’s covered in crusty, carbon muck, ruined.  The semi-open oven door snaps back into my left hand, burning my wrist.  Screaming, I whip my right hand, which propels the spatula into the oven, smushing the top pancakes on the tidy, vertical stack.  Instinctively reaching for the spatula, I burn my right hand.

***

I’m upstairs writing this, while husband and teenager (and finally, the dogs) are downstairs, enjoying their breakfast.  Mommy went to her room, for a timeout.  The snow is really coming down, now.  It’s beginning to stick to the Skeleton.

***

Tis the holiday season.  Can you handle it?

Are you Crazybusy?  Here’s an easy way to determine, if you are unsure.  Take the Crazybusy Test!  (If you have time, that is.) 

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Simply answer “Agree” or “Do Not Agree” to the following statements: 

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1.  You’re not quite sure if you could pick out your kids, in a police lineup.

2.  You say expressions like, “I don’t have time to breathe!” or “I’ll sleep when I’m dead!”  or “I’m only one woman!”

3.  You started thinking about having kids at 37 and actually started acting on it at 43.

4.  You work full-time, raise kids, tend the home, support your family, volunteer, enable friends, and cling to a “creative outlet” like making mosaic vases or crafting the perfect sourdough starter.

5.  You haven’t gotten laid within a year— married, single, straight or gay.

6.  You have more wrinkles at 32 than you mom has, at 68.

7.  You think that “having it all” means “never having to prioritize.”

8.  You think that by simply saying, “Family comes first,” that you actually do it.

9.  You aggressively pursue meditation, yoga, tai chi, or other relaxation techniques.

10.  You cannot remember a day that went by without your touching a screened device.

11.  You cannot remember an hour that went by without your touching a screened device. 

12.  You realize that the only time you smile is when some sales clerk is handing you back change for the newspaper. 

13.  Consider fun frivolous.

14.  Consider sleep optional.

15.  Consider kindness inefficient.

16.  Consider monogamy insufficient.

17.  Would have an affair, if your joint schedules could accommodate the time commitment. 

18.  Hate your family.

19.  Resent your friends.

20.  Practice self-loathing on a daily basis.

21.  Have, had, or will have an eating disorder.

22. Wear a size 2 and claim that your thighs are too fat.

23.  Wear a size 22 and claim to love your body.

24.  Perform activities in the following order:

Text * Surf * Work * Eat * Fuck * Sleep * Change your tampon * Shit * Play * Love

25.  Check Facebook more times a day than you hug your kids, spouse, friends, dogs and cats, combined. 

26.  Text more than you laugh.

27.  Consider doing one thing at a time the equivalent to actively participating in a coma.

28.  Yell at your kids more than you talk to them.

29.  Read the news more than you live your life.

30.  Always seem to find the time to gossip, judge, complain, blame, deflect, project, deny, lie, avoid, fear, worry, betray, belittle, depress, confess and obsess. 

Rating Procedure: 

Add up the number of “Agrees.”

0-0:  You’re okay.  Keep going. 

1-30:  If you answered “Agree” to any of the following… well… I hate to be the one to tell you.  You’re kind of, a little, fucked, my friend.

As the weather turns cold and leaves begin to fall, another round of Holidays begin.  And, with this arrives my annual ranting of the crazed spirit that befalls upon us.   It is the time of year I desperately crave to live in another culture—one where they are not inundated with the religious panic and gun-point reparations that the U.S. claims as, “The Season of Giving.” Greedy Americans consume most savagely—a materialistic school of piranhas— eating, drinking, partying, shopping, and…yes, giving.   

Now, I’m Jewish, so I may be a tad bitter.  And, let’s be honest; giving, for a Jew, is not part of our genetic make-up.  Oh sure, we give.  But, we give in a mechanical, bookkeeping sort of way.  Giving is a prudent and logical exchange offered within an obligatory barter system, as opposed to our souls’ joyous release:  John gave me a check for 50.00 on my birthday, so I better give him 50.00, too. 

Our Crazybusy Culture is now heightened to a crescendo-like peak, as people cram cooking, baking, party-making, party-going, community-serving, fund-raising, church-attending, and merriment-expecting into their already gridlocked schedules.  Oddly, in a time when the landscape begins to hibernate—drawing its energy into its core and preparing for winter’s calm slumber— human inhabitants choose to trample over this natural cycle with mall-thronging, hymnal-howling, and cocktail-sloshing, extroverted frenzy. 

If there were a cultural deity one could sue for punitive damages, I surely would.  All I want is to experience the fall months until mid-January in peace and quiet.  Instead, it’s louder and more cacophonic than the rest of the year, combined. 

***

So, what’s a bitter Grinch to do?  This year, a friend who is struggling through his second year of cancer helps to put things into perspective.  He states,

I cannot help but revisit the centrality of connection. In this disease process I’ve experienced a visceral acknowledgement of how much connection to family and friends means. For most of my life I have defined myself, at least in part, by what I did: husband, parent, teach, build furniture, cross country ski, mountain bike, etc. Many of these definitions are foreign to me now through the action of Leukemia, and so I have been left to reconstruct the daily selfhood construction and maintenance.  Foremost has been connecting to family and friends.

Being home has allowed me to welcome more visitors on a more regular basis than in hospital. So I have been lucky enough to be in a position to ‘manage’ folks who want to visit—in part as my energy still is marginal and in part to parse out visits like one who is able to savor sweets… unlike myself who pretty much always finished them off inordinately quickly. Being so blessed to savor a visit a day enriches each encounter so that I appreciate each person and the disparate, lovely presence they bring. Really a skill and luxury I had never before apprehended.

***

When I visited Australia, I remember people greeting each other with “How you goin?” instead of “How are you doing?”  I liked that, but hadn’t reflected upon why.  My friend’s message helped to clarify.  It emphasizes Being vs. Doing— how one chooses to be, in whatever situation they are placed.  When life is boiled down to its essence, what is left?

In Hospice Volunteer training, we identified the ten most important “things” in our lives.  They could be material things— house, car, etc. - or they could be people, or they could be qualities- a sense of humor, kindness, gratitude, etc.  

We wrote each thing on a small scrap of paper.  Then, we were told that we had a terminal illness and one year to live.  We were instructed to say goodbye to all of our things.  So, safe in our health and in the company of the group, we sat on the couches and comfy chairs, and one by one, said goodbye to each thing.  And each time, we crumbled the paper and tossed it on the floor in front of us.

We sat there in silence.  Many people cried and shook, privately.  After a few minutes, the facilitator said, “Now, imagine that you are healed, and all is well.  One by one, pick up each paper, uncrumble it, and welcome that thing back into your lives.”  

The immense relief and gratitude that emerged from a simple ten-minute activity was palpable.  It was also enlightening, as I realized how the list immediately transformed.  The only things that mattered- the only things that I knew I wanted at the end of my life— were my friends and family—there with me, in the room.  The only things I needed were my qualities— a sense of humor, honesty, and introspection.  The career, retirement home, favorite wooden bowls (these actually made the top ten, eek!), the Whatever- vanished.  

Dear ones.   As you begin to hurl yourself into this Holiday Season, forgo the material madness.  Spend time with your friends and family, not money on them.  The most important gift you can give is the gift of yourself.  Just be with the people you love. 

Happy Holidays.

What better way to come out of the closet, than on a Facebook comment on— what is it—  “Come Out as You Are” Day? 

It’s official.  We have replaced every single intimate interaction with the Internet.  We can chat, date, fuck, get sick, see the doctor, mourn, go to school, go to work, start a business, visit friends, buy drugs, and find a support group, online.  We can commit our sins and confess our sins, all online.  And of course, now we can announce our sexuality on National Cuming (oops I mean Coming) Out Day. 

Aah, Crazybusy.  You have outdone yourself. 

Shit, what was I thinking.  I have the nerve to be disappointed?  If we don’t even have time to shoot the shit with the bus driver or random nephew, how the fuck did I think we’d actually have time to meet with an intimate person in our lives and share with them one of our most profound and deeply personal sources of our identity?  Better to send them a clip of The Ellen Show, with the tag-line:  me, too. 

Note, to all you Generation Non-Z’ers, you Precious Flowers:  If you are gay, or lesbian, or transgendered, or bisexual, or some combination of these attributes, do your family a favor.  Get in your car and drive over to their house.  Bring some oatmeal cookies or lemon tea bread.  Settle into the couch.  Accept some tea.  Get the small talk out of the way.  Get the medium talk out of the way.  Make some psychic space.  And, share with them, face to face.  Then leave more space afterwords.  Allow them to question you, judge you, and harm you.  Allow them all the space they need.  Then, get up, hug them if they will still hug you, and leave them to process this.  Allow them the time to return to you. 

Honor your self and your identity and your loved ones and their identity with this most difficult of rituals. 

Then.  In a few years.  If you must.  Post the goddamned news on your Facebook page.

Okay Ladies— let’s have some FUN!  Let’s all post where we put our lipsticks! 

I like it in my Ziploc bag!  Hilarious! 

OR OR— let’s say where we stash our tampons! 

I like to put it in my pocket!  Out of control! 

NO WAIT!!  Let’s all say how women are demoralized and denigrated by a patriarchal society:  post where you relinquish your civil liberties! 

I like to loose mine at the workplace!  Hysterical!!!!!

A friend asked me this today.  “Can I share your blog with my sister?” 

Yes, for the love of Christ!  Show my blog to the world!

***

I’m reconciling with god about this unfulfilled dream to be a published author that “somehow got left in my heart” (you know men— never picking up their messes. just leave em right where they tossed em).

Anyway.  Looking at this lovely fall day with the periwinkle sky and the gentle breezes and the thousands of houseplants and the calm dog.  And, although I’m not earning a living being a published author, I’m sitting here, and I’m thinking, “Shucks. I’m happy.”

I think about Anne Lamott who implores writers to Be The Breeze and to simply write and share and leave the rest alone.  I think about the movie Funny People, and how as one moves into their success, everyone that loves them takes a step back, leaving them alone with their heart’s desire.  I think about how this sounds like Sour Grapes, but how part of it resonates. 

I don’t want to end up traveling 300 days a year to promote my books to 12-17 (if I’m lucky) people at Barnes and Nobles, eating alone the Spanikopita purchased from the health food store, because I’m too embarrassed to eat alone at a restaurant.  I don’t want to spend nights in a Hampton Inn eating their continental breakfasts— white flour baked goods and yogurt with aspartame, forced to listen to some local news turned up way too high on the bolted flat screen TV up in the wall corner— blocking out the sunny day— and making no eye contact with the sleepy desolate folks around me who are in the same boat, but paddling in a different direction. 

I think about my friend who asks me to consider ‘What is actually happening?” when I get all vehrklempt about my dreams to be a successful author and keynote speaker. 

I recall the movie That Thing Called Love, when Samantha Mathis loses everything, and, on her way back to NYC— a failure at her attempts in becoming a country music star— writes the song in her heart that finds its place in the Hall of Fame box at the Bluebird Cafe, which earns her the opportunity to sing on Saturday night. 

A heart’s dream is the kite, and although we think we let it go… we always hold onto the string, while we watch it fly away.  An unfulfilled dream is pretty, flapping about in the breeze.  And, the sand feels squishy between our toes.

I think about how happy I am in my life— right now— with my dream unfulfilled, with that constant mosquito and tinnitus yearning in my heart, and I wonder how the two experiences can exist so peacefully, so concurrently. 

And, how sometimes, honestly, they don’t.  I think about how one can place one foot Here and one foot There.  Being present and at the same time… visualizing forward.  And, then I think, “does that create a life of balance— Horse stance?  Or, does it create a life of always being off balance?

And, I think, maybe the wrong prayer is, “god, manifest what you’ve put in my heart.”  Maybe the prayer is, “Whatever god. I’ll just wake up and listen without judgment, and respond, accordingly.”

***

So, if you ask me if you can share my blog with others, I mean.. all I need to say is, “yes.”  That’s all you need. 

But for me, you’re asking if you can help me make my dream come true.  It’s Yes, and then some.

Yes.  Yes, you can share my blog.  And, I suspect that if you asked any other unpublished writer, they’d have the same quivering response. 

Received this message from a “friend” on Facebook: 

 Alright ladies, here’s a game, like the bra colour game, which was a total success and we had men wondering for days what was with the colours and it made it to the news. Well, this game has to do with your handbag, and where we put our handbag the moment we get home for example “I like it on the couch”, “I like it on the kitchen counter”, “I like it on the dresser”. Well, you get the idea. Just put your answer as your status with nothing more than that, then cut and paste this message and forward to all your female Facebook friends to their inbox. The bra game made it to the news. Let’s see how powerful we women really are! REMEMBER - DO NOT PUT YOUR ANSWER AS A REPLY TO THIS MESSAGE! OKAY, WE WILL KEEP IT UP AS OUR STATUS AT LEAST FOR TODAY ONLY TO SEE HOW MANY RESPONSES WE GET… LMAO!

Er, excuse me..  again.  I’m not a card-carrying Feminist.  But, how the fuck does posting where I place my handbag illustrate the feminine power that exudes from my spirit, announcing my place in the world?

This would be a swell time to be an alcoholic.

Okay, granted— I don’t know much about “my” religion, but isn’t this Facebook message a bit, er… generic?

Yom Kippur starts at sundown- If I’ve offended or harmed you in any way, by deed or inaction, deliberately or unknowingly over the past year(s),  I ask your full forgiveness, and I extend mine to you ahead of time, if needed.

Here’s to another year of life and better living in it.

Isn’t there a more intimate reflection involved in this ritual? 

Or, has spirituality finally met its match— efficiency? 

I missed my period.  It was eight days late.  At 46, this presents an interesting quandry. 

My first thought is, “Christ, could I be pregnant??”  Horror fantasies of Cyclops Babies run rampant through my mind, mixed with a slight drizzle of gushing love and hope that this might be my Geena Davis Moment— I’ll give birth to a love child— at 46.  My Swan Song of Parenthood.  Plus, a girl this time!  No more smelly boys overwhelming the psychic space of my home.  No, it’ll be me and my precious flower, my girl that I can really love and be present with and have patience for, because I’ve been through the rigors of parenting with my boys, and now that they are large and teenagery, I will have the gift of a daughter to “Get It Right. ” 

My second thought is a bit more keenly morose and real.  I’m eight days late because I am officially entering peri-menopause.  The end of reliable periods sets in, and now begins the ragged, sloppy decade of Transition.  Or worse, I’m IN menopause!  Mine is the flash-in-the-pan variety.  I’ve simply stopped having my periods, and carelessly did not carve out time for closure and reflection.  I’m just.  Done. 

Shit!

I tell my husband the news:  that he might either be a father or I might be a crone.  He listens for a bit, then with a slight quirk in his smile, placing an arm on my shoulder, he says gently, “Suze, you had your period two weeks ago.  “

 ”No shit?  I did?  Really?”

“Yep.  Remember?  That was the weekend that we (whatever the hell we did that is irrelevant to the blog).”

“hm.  sonofabitch.  yeh, you’re right.”

So, Hey!  I’m not pregnant or dried up.  Turns out I’m just losing my mind.  Phew.

Time to mark the damn periods on a calendar. 

My, my my, look at what my friends posted about their children on Facebook.  Their Precious Flowers are petting goats, making soccer goals, baking cakes, and hugging Grammy.  Why, isn’t that the cutest thing, ever? 

Jesus Christ.  Remember the last blog entry?  About no one giving a fuck?  Well, that applies to your kids, but multiply it by a thousand— a hundred fucking thousand.  

Aaaah, the good ol days.  When kids should be seen and not heard.  The days when we grew kids to help out with chores.  We planted a lot of seed, and spit out a bunch of ‘em, in case a few died off.  When old enough to crawl, Grammy placed a rag on the kid’s ass, so it could clean the floor.  When old enough to walk, it carried tools out to Grandpa.  When they were old enough to talk, they were told to shut the hell up.  And, when they were old enough to go out in public, they were taught how to behave, or else they sat in the buggy until they could act like human beings. 

Nowadays.  Sigh.  Nowadays, children rule the world.  Parents live for their children.  No, you are misunderstanding me:  They LIVE.  FOR THEIR CHILDREN.  Every single decision is made for the Good of the Precious Flowers.   Every dollar earned and spent goes toward the Precious Flowers.  Every activity, food product, conversation, musical choice, TV show, vacation, car we drive, house we live in, clothing we wear…  everything is for the Nurturing of the Precious Flowers. 

And, the time we invest!  OH, the time we spend on our Precious Flowers.  In the land of Crazybusy, we must breed Renaissance Children.  Our children are blessed prodigies, and therefore must be stimulated vigorously, so as not to waste one single neuron.  Young gifted minds play 4 musical instruments and 3 sports—including those traveling teams where we fly our kids to Nebraska to play softball or drive 200 miles to Syracuse for a hockey game.  They must be on a traveling team, because, after all, they are so talented. 

Oh, and their talent does not end with the trombone or the catcher’s mitt.  No, no.  In the land of multi-modal learning, children possess a swarm of giftedness.  They act in plays, ride horses, take singing lessons, make sculptures, grow orchids, kill deer, fly planes, and manage restaurants.  Why, just the other day, we encountered the most adorable 6 year-old restaurant hostess.  After she scrawled my misspelled name on her waiting list, I asked Precious Flower if she could tell me how long the wait was.  She screamed, “NO!” and scampered off.  Why, the darling little angel!  How gifted!  Such talent!

Then, in the summer—it’s off to camp!  Soccer camp, baseball camp, basketball camp, football camp, field hockey camp, lacrosse camp, art camp, farm camp, clown camp, acting camp, cooking camp, fat camp, gay camp, camp for learning disabilities, camp for families of adoption, gluten-free camp, special needs camp.  For the brainiacs, it’s off to chess tournaments, math and science labs, Leadership Conferences, foreign exchanges, and private tutors.  All vacations revolve around the Precious Flowers:  Disneyland, Disney World, the loudest most crowded beaches, Jellystone, and Grammy’s.  You want a romantic interlude?  Go masturbate in the shower. 

We’re too busy to take 30 minutes to reconnect with a friend over a cup of tea.  But, we’ll spend twenty hours a week staring at our kids on the sidelines or listening to them stumble over the piano or shriek Shakespeare in a crackling voice.  We’ll spend hours sitting on our ass watching our kid sit on the bench in endless ball games, and waste thousands of hours worrying about the shitty coach, “who hates them and plays political games and that’s why they don’t play.”

Oh, and the volunteering!  Part-time jobs at their elementary schools—coaching teams, reading to kids, chaperoning field trips, baking brownies for fund-raisers, selling the fund-raising products for them, doing their homework, and yes, “Advocacy.”(Read:  solving all their problems).  We rally incessantly around indecencies and demand presentations on bullying, substance use, sexual conduct, hate crimes, and other human behaviors that are, unfortunately, human, and therefore… um… you know… around. 

And, Jesus.  What’s worse than witnessing parents out in public, “having a dialogue” with their kids.  Mhm.  Bullshit.  They’re not talking to their kids.  They are speaking to all the people around them in a desperate attempt to prove what responsible, flexible, and cool-yet-diligent parents they are.  “Now, Joey, one doesn’t scream fuck at the top of their lungs, while kicking the nice lady in front of them in the grocery line.  Remember when we went to that family festival last Sunday?  And, we learned how to behave nicely with strangers?  Remember how well you behaved— better than all the other children there?  Well, that’s how I’d like you to be, now.  Inside voice, Joey.  Inside. 

Inside voice? Come on; what the fuck?  Christ Almighty, your moronic brat is being an asshole.  Tell him or her or them to shut up and behave, or they won’t be getting their special organic, gluten-free, low-glycemic snack you promised.   EVER.  Instead, they’ll be spending summer camp in their bedroom, reading those moldy things, called books. 

NEWSFLASH:  kids are brats.  They are assholes.  They’re KIDS, for chrissake; it’s their job.  You are the adult, and you have the power.  Don’t give it away to some mangy little twerp.  Don’t you dare allow them to be shitheads.  We have a black president; it’s okay to slap your kids—at least until 2012.

Your self worth is not determined by how much of your life you sacrifice to your children.  Grow a pair!  When your kid is being a disrespectful little bitch, let ‘em know.  And, certainly, don’t run your ass off, wasting all your time engaging in their activities (that they probably don’t even like in the first place, and definitely don’t want you there to “support” them in). 

If ten activities seems “a tad much” on the family dry-erase calendar, wake up and jettison.  Which ones?  Start with the most expensive, time-consuming, and annoying ones.  Then, work your way down the list.  You’ll live.  They’ll live.  They’ll successfully graduate High School.  And, they’ll still go off to college and waste your hard-earned money by smoking weed in their dorm rooms and skipping classes.  Trust me; you have my word, on this one.

You don’t have to fly to Nebraska or drive to Syracuse to prove that you are a good parent.  You are.  Just calm the fuck down.  And, remember, too, that every other parent is more busy over-watering their own Precious Flowers and worrying about being judged than to give a fuck about you and your own.