Motherhood: A Real Job


It’s been eight years since I’ve gotten a paycheck. Like, a real steady one. Not just a here-and-there check for some written article or published piece. Though I would like more of those, they are fleeting and rare, like the money I used to get as a kid for sweeping the porch of an elderly aunt.

When I say this out loud, that I haven’t been paid in years, I wonder if it makes me sound bad. But I already know the answer. The real truth. Outwardly, the world likes to tell me to be proud of my station in life. As a stay-at-home mom, the platitudes say, I am doing the most important job that a person could ever do. But, the thing is, I do it every day without pay. So, to a large portion of the populous, it makes what I do seem less real than the sorts of jobs that my working friends hold.

This leads me to a sort of existential meltdown sometimes and the questions come pouring out of my brain like a leaky faucet. In these terrible moments, I wonder, should I be ashamed of what I’m doing with my life? Should I feel bad about my useless degree? Is there a purpose to this seemingly pointless routine? Are my passions wasted on tiny people who may never appreciate my efforts? These are all my angry ponderings as I clean up Lego blocks from under the couch or sweep sandbox grit off of my newly mopped floor.

Yes, I lead a life of minutia. Truly. All full-time moms do. We don’t debug computers or build amphitheaters. Our days will never be thought of with the same level of respect as a Supreme Court Justice. And the problems we solve will rarely amount to life or death in the same way that it will to a neurosurgeon. But the struggles we face, as women who have chosen parenthood as our career, is very real. And, for that matter, so is our job.

In the beginning, when my daughter was a newborn, she had a battery of issues which made her a challenge – colic and reflux and a cry so loud even her screams could be heard from space! As a result, I was a mess. And so was my house. I didn’t get more than a fifteen minute interval of sleep for the first six months after her birth. And, though the washing machine was always on, it seemed like we never had any clean clothes. Everything was a disorienting blur. Without any help or time away from my home, I waded through the trenches of her early life like a beaten down doughboy in the Great War.

I had contemplated going back to work, especially in my weakest moments when I ached for adult conversation. However, financially and logistically, the idea of putting her in daycare, just so I could make a few extra dimes, didn’t make any sense. And, since my daughter was breastfeeding almost constantly, it seemed like the best path for me was to stay home. So I did. From that time forward.

During those early years, the struggles of my job as full-time mom weren’t evident to the world. All they saw was a young family, now complete, with a sweet baby in arms. Because I was cloistered away in the convent of motherhood, and no one saw my pains, they weren’t deemed real. Nor was my new vocation. People who visited us would always remark on how lucky I was to be home with the baby. How wonderful it was that I got to relax and luxuriate at home. How amazing it must be to live in pajamas and be able to dash off to the park or store whenever I got the urge. But really, this was simply never the case.

I remember thinking how lucky, indeed, I was to be able to hear the day-long cries of my wailing child whom I was thoroughly unable to console. How luxurious, in fact, it was to get the opportunity to milk scream feed repeat. All. Day. Long. And how amazing it was to wear pajamas – never mind the caked on spit-up of a rancid milk burp that even lingered after washing. Yes. Good times!

Now, flashing forward to our current life, with my daughter close to the double digits and my son somewhere in the quagmire of yucky boy youth, my days are equally busy. And my job is just as real. My fatigue level is about the same. The children’s screams aren’t as constant, though the fighting can sometimes make it seem otherwise. Relaxation amounts to being able to finish scrubbing all two bathtubs in the house before someone needs my help – with homework or missing action figures. And I still live in pajamas that, thankfully, smell better than their predecessors, though they do manage to get stained just as often.

I could go through the trite scenario of charting out my duties, with the intent to form a resume, so I can say to the world “Hey, look what I can do!” But I won’t. I may never change the minds of those who think my life has amounted to nothing more than diapering babies and baking cookies. Lord knows I certainly won’t impress many would-be employers with my “wearing many hats” routine. To my knowledge, melting crayons for art projects and getting silly putty out of bed sheets has never ranked highly as a skill set for those who are hiring.

But, to those who know me, or any other stay-at-home mom, I urge you to understand one very important thing: Motherhood IS a full-time job. A very REAL one, in fact. Just as real as the next fireman or accountant or plumber or attorney. It’s an occupation to be respected along with the rest! Sure, our paychecks aren’t traditional – they often come in the form of stick figure drawings or freshly plucked wildflowers. And, after years of service, there won’t be a large 401K fund for one’s efforts – but, with any luck, there will be some well-adjusted human beings who were actually grateful for their mom’s time and troubles.

So, to everyone at a party who has asked me when I’m going to “go back to work” (like I don’t already have a job at hand) or to every working friend who has mentioned their “real” job in passing (as though mine is any less trying or laborious), I want to shout it loud and proud: Motherhood IS my job! My day job. My night job. My full-time job. My real job. And if anyone thinks differently, I would love to hire them for a day and see how well they fare.

 

The Truth About Santa (and other people)


There comes a time in every child’s life when the leaps of faith in fantastical beings (like the Tooth Fairy, Easter Bunny and Santa Claus) get trampled and overtaken by more mature thoughts of probability, pragmatism and logic. My friend’s daughter reached that stage this past weekend. There were some tears (from both sides). They had a talk. And, then that evening she left her daughter a note that she would find when she awoke. Here is what that note said:

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To back up a little, this girl has been a “believer” in all things big and small since she was a mere tot. And, her mom had a huge part in shaping those beliefs. They basked in every holiday, adding magical lore and fanciful figures to each and every celebration.

At Christmas, the traditional tales of Santa were told, as well as many untraditional stories her mom made up. These stories explained everything from why there were different Santa’s at every mall, how he made it to all of the world’s houses in one night, and of course the amazing “Santa election process!”

At Easter there was an Easter Bunny. But, unlike most that just leave Peeps and cheap trinkets, he would instead leave plastic eggs with scavenger hunt clues that lead to a bigger prize in the end. And then the Tooth Fairy – she left glittered notes and a magical two dollar bill in exchange for each tooth lost. A pretty sweet deal, if you ask me! Of course, the story behind why she needed children’s teeth became very intricate and had something to do with powering an entire city. Ever heard of “tooth juice?” Yea, me neither, but her mom did and that was a whole other topic of its own!

Yes, my friend had created a very elaborate world of lovely folklore that her daughter ate up with delight. The very best of them all, however, was the Elf. You know, those elves that everyone displays during the holidays. That brilliant Elf on the Shelf from which some ladies amassed and empire?! Yes, those! My friend had gone above and beyond each Christmas season, preparing intricate and exciting Elf displays. Each year had a theme. The first year started off small, with little inspirational quotes.

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The following year got more educational, with the elf embodying notable figures throughout history. (If you want to see all of them, go here. They are pretty darn cool! http://www.boredpanda.com/inspirational-elf-on-the-shelf/)

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And last year, the Elf went all out reenacting scenes from movies. (More here: http://www.boredpanda.com/the-quotable-elf/)

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It was pretty great!

But now it can be no more. Her daughter no longer believes! I know I was sad to learn of this new reality. And I wondered, in my time of pondering, was there anything wrong with instilling such a detailed belief system only to have it shatter and fall to the ground one day?!

The answer is simply: of course not! By telling these stories and keeping this mythology alive, she did a wonderful thing for her daughter. Though it’s not quite how we do things in our house, I understand the logic (or madness!) behind it. She gave her child something we are quite lacking today – the gift of imagination, belief in something grand as well as pure and simple joy. Even though none of it was real, even though some could contend it was nothing more than a web of lies, it was done with love and the good intentions of a parent who wanted nothing more than to give her daughter some special childhood memories. And, that’s pretty great, if you ask me – a cynical girl who always knew such things didn’t exist.

Maybe those tears they shed together were necessary. Maybe this conversation about the “truth” was hard. But, from what I hear, it also ended in hugs and a new sense of wonder. This time, though, the elation existed over what *other* things they could create, together, that could be just as fun as an Elf, a city run on tooth juice and a fat guy who delivers good memories for all! And, boy, I can’t wait to see what they come up with together!

Troubled People: Part 2 (A Hand in the Crowd)


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The end of the school year often brings about a plethora of evening gatherings and events, celebrating and showcasing the work that students have done for the entirety of the school year. At my daughter’s school, this was very much the case with their Annual Family Night presentations. They had worked hard for the entire semester perfecting their speaking abilities and mastering their knowledge on one topic. And this night, this event, was rather like the crown jewel in their efforts. The cherry on top of the sundae that was a strained and loathed curriculum.

My daughter, who was not too eager to step into the limelight, slunk through it all with the ease of any wallflower, wishing her part would come and go without notice, praying away the minutes until it was time to leave. And I would be remiss if I weren’t secretly admitting the same. Not from a shyness standpoint (though I am, painfully), but really from a boredom standpoint. Not boredom about her topic (which was the tropical rainforest, by the way – see, I do listen!). Really just distracted detachment due to the plight of being there as an unfocused mother of another child, one who was three-years old and headed for a meltdown.

After the first hour of doing everything in my power to maintain a wrestling hold on my little squirming monster, I was pretty well spent long before her grade level was even on the brink of stepping out. I kept checking my watch, hoping the time would magically whiz by in a rush of warp speed. All I could think about was the bedtime we would be late to catch, the punch-drunkedness that was starting to take effect on my little guy, and how to keep him from saying his new favorite word (poopy) at the top of his lungs. No small feat!

Of course, we were in the middle of the middle row, so I could neither escape quickly nor with any sort of grace. But, the time was coming. I knew I had literally minutes before the ticking time bomb of a toddler would go off. Countdown was already happening – it was just a matter of when!

I kept checking the exits, measuring whose legs were longest and which direction would be the best point of leave. I glanced at the back, looking for a safe spot where I could take my cantankerous son while still being able to watch my daughter. Ever hopeful that I could live in both worlds at once – like all good mothers. And, of course, it felt like I was the only one in the auditorium suffering through this sort of ordeal. Everyone else had older children, better behaved children. Silent babies. Mannerly toddlers. And they also had complete focus on the videos they were recording. Complete involvement in the world we were so focused on removing ourselves from.

Just as I could hear it, the start of my son’s soliloquy of potty words, I made a mad scramble for the exit. I jumbled through the legs of many, reciting a pitiful “sorry” and “excuse me” with intermittent bouts of eye contact and half-hearted smiles. In the moment of my passing, I was blocking parents from seeing their kids’ presentations. Snickers could be heard. And over that, my son’s loud voice was starting to cause a ruckus. We were both, together, ruining the moment. I felt like a pariah. Like the person who was responsible for wrecking the night. Like the one that all eyes were watching.

Though I know so many of the moms who were present had been in my shoes before, I couldn’t help but feel a little judged. If I were able to hear their thoughts, I was certain they would have sounded like: “Why can’t she keep her son quiet?” “Looks like she’s raising a brat!” “Where’s her husband?” “Why did she sit so close to the front?” “Does she even have a kid in this school? I’ve never seen her at a PTA meeting!” “One word, lady: babysitter!”

Just as I made it to the back, I saw her. You know, the mom that all the other moms talk about. As I passed, I noticed a faint smell of whisky looming in the air around her. Her dark, curly hair was a slight birds’ nest of a mess. Her clothes, ill fitting, aimed desperately to be professional in appearance, though fell short because of the small specks of food (or something) that had stained the corner of her lapel. I watched her for a moment, almost gawking that someone was more awkward than me – me with my over-tired babbling boy, screaming through the rows about his new found fecal philia.

This mom, she clapped ferociously after every child’s pause in speech. And sometimes when they weren’t yet done. She cheered occasionally the way that college girls do at Mardi Gras when they catch a string of beads. A long “WHHOOOOOOOOOHOOOO,” even raising up her hands as if she were on an amusement park ride. And toward the end, she started throwing out phrases like an eager and raucous church lady, saying “Uh huh, that’s right” or “You tell ‘em!” And to one of the boys she even stood up and said “You go, girl.”

In my prior haste to get to the back of the room, I had noticed the thick and steaming snickers of judgement pervading the air around me. Because I can be a bit self-centered, I had misinterpreted it to think that they were all aimed at me. But they weren’t. Not most of them, anyway. After watching for a moment, I realized that they had been directed at this mom. The mom that all the other moms avoid.

Finally, as it was time for her daughter and my daughter (who were in the same class) to make their presentations, I noticed the kids shuffling out with timid confusion. They each came out in a small groups, mumbling briefly into a dusty old microphone before scooting off into the shadows. I was able to catch my daughter’s presentation before she scurried off with the rest. She had been so nervous, but when she saw us in the audience, even though we had moved so far to the back, she smiled with ease and seemed to instantly relax. The juxtaposition between my daughter and her classmate, however, was profound.

This woman’s little girl seemed to have the opposite reaction when she saw her mother. Her otherwise fearless countenance flickered with a hint of panic. You could tell she was holding back tears – tears of disappointment, tears of upset, tears of sorrow. She seemed to have the whole weight of the world on her tiny shoulders, aware of all that could, and probably did, go wrong when her mother was in this “state.” And her mom, who was near us, rose from her seat to a standing position and projected louder her boozy pride from the distance. Clearly the daughter wanted to quickly hurry into the shadows, too.

The evening’s event ended as they always do, with a big heap of gratitude offered from the flustered and ever-perspiring Principal. I walked through the crowd, with my tired son wriggling in my arms, on the quest to round up my daughter to go home. As I did, I overheard a lot of people’s conversations. Most of them, sadly, were about the mom with the drinking problem. The one the other moms wish would just go away.

They talked about how unfortunate it was. How sad for the girl. How many days on the wagon she had been before falling off again. There were even a few guesses about how many drinks she had drunk before coming. And how many more she would have when she got home. Everyone was talking about her. But no one was helping. No one was even considering lending a hand.

Not that there was a lot anyone could do, right? Our culture is one that recognizes problems and then just expects the person to suck it up and move forward. But how? How does one do that if they are living with a debilitating mental condition? How can they get help if the “village” has moved to the other side of their reach, thereby cutting them off from community or the support needed to get such help?

I didn’t know enough about her to answer those questions. And I wasn’t a therapist (unlike one of the other moms, who should have known better than to be so…cruel). But what I did know was that she had not long ago moved here from another city. She was a little rough around the edges, sure. She hadn’t ever really folded into the mix in terms of the group of moms at the school, obviously. But then again, neither had I. We were kind of the same. Both subject to the scoffing of other more perfect parents. Both feeling outside of the loop. Both hampered by big, loud diversions that caused constant embarrassment. Yet, despite our flaws, both of us were here to support (loudly or otherwise) our daughters.

Maybe because I saw myself in her a little (minus the Jim Beam infusion), I decided later on that I would stop being one of those people whose actions and deeds didn’t match. If I spoke of concern, I would act on it. If I thought someone needed help, I would offer it. And if I presented myself as a friend, I would actually be one. Not like those other parents. The ones who sat and judged everyone else, wishing away all those things/people that weren’t perfect.

We can’t save the world. No! But we can be real and show real concern for people in our communities. And maybe that small impact can make a larger ripple in the lives of those we would have otherwise cast aside. Just offering to be that friendly hand in the crowd may save someone’s life.

#FacebookFast


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With social media being what it is, a virtual soapbox for people to air out their grievances, there are many movements on the rise. It seems that everyone has a hash-tag for something they feel to be important. Whether it be controversial political stances or simplified forms of unity, there is a mark for anything. Everything. And, seriously folks, it’s getting kind of ridiculous.

But, pause right there, because I have something that will make a little sense as I go on. I’m starting my own movement. One to end all other movements. At least, on one platform. I’m calling it: #FacebookFast

That’s right! I did it! I am currently (and for the unforeseeable future) continuing on a fast from this format of social media that I find most offensive. After all, it’s really the only viable one. Twitter is for twits. Pinterest is where creativity (and time) goes to die. MySpace is all but defunct. Google +…what the hell is that, anyway?! So, Facebook it is!

And, hold on, by offensive, I don’t mean in the conventional sense – the politically correct sense, the touchy-feely panties in a wrinkle sense. Nope! Instead, what I find offensive about Facebook is the people on it. And their need to over-share. And under-like. And up the ante on false concern. And lower the regard for real human connection.

What I dislike so greatly about this very addictive, very feeble attempt at community is the fact that while everyone is on it, most people on your friend list are noticeably absent from really supporting or encouraging their global “village.” It seems to have become nothing more than a voyeur’s haven. A place where you can watch and laugh from afar at your unwitting, foolish neighbors without bothering to really make the effort to launch yourself into their life.

And then there’s the show. Aren’t most people on Facebook really just showing off?! Yes. How many pictures of sandy feet at Cabo or beautiful blue eyed children do we need to see before we raise the white flag and surrender?! Okay. You did it. You have the perfect life. You win!

In reality, nobody cares about the chocolate cake you “made” from “scratch.” They don’t care about your cat’s mischievous green eyes. Or your perfect duck-faced photo of a girls night post-appletinis. And, for the love of Pete, just how many selfies does one person need to post?! There is no etiquette guide. No Emily Post for the modern era. But, I can imagine that it stops shy of two dozen.

In my angst over Facebook (see my previous article: When “Friends” Don’t “Like” Your Facebook Posts), I have opined about how annoying it is when your own friends (and even family) don’t “like” the things you post. As if that really matters. As if it means something.

In truth, Facebook is just a microscope of all of the worst traits of humanity. Small. Petty. Boastful. Brash. Over-opinionated. Under-educated. Inefficient. Ineffectual. Waste. Of. Time.

So, I’m over it. I’m done. And I encourage you to do the same.

Go out. Enjoy a sunny day. Plant a garden. Read a book. Call a friend. Make a soufflé. Or, you know, whatever. Just live life. Engage in real conversations with real people. Stop showing off. Stop pretending the illusion matters. Stop forgetting about the things that actually do matter. And follow my movement.

#FacebookFast

You might have nowhere to post it but you’ll be glad you did it!

An Elf’s Guide For Momma’s Holiday Survival


It’s that time of year again!!

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These days, it seems to be a holiday requirement for each home to possess their own Elf on the Shelf. And, if you’ve been paying attention, you will notice how every single household is trying to outdo the others in ways of creativity, cutesiness and cheer. Parents are going into full-blown planning mode, months and months in advance, all so that they can come up with new and interesting ways to hide these ubiquitous imps. And frankly, folks, it is turning into insanity!!

I have seen my fair share of moms break down and lose it over a bad Pinterest picture, a plagiarized hiding spot or a momentary creative block. Luckily for me, our family has a very different kind of elf. And he has a very different message! Here are the nuggets of wisdom our elf has imparted to us – tips that have helped me to survive this…

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I Am The Infected: Breaking The Silence Behind Pinworms


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That’s right. I have it – that thing no one ever talks about. I am infected with a plague that is growing inside of my body, an ailment so damning and taboo that I am unable to confess it to anyone. But I walk around in shame, hanging my head low, worried about the prospect of spreading it to others. I feel so alone. And dirty. And disgusting. But I know I can’t be the only one.

Statistically speaking, given the contagious nature of my malady, and with figures concluding that as many as 1 in 7 people in the world are infected at any given time, I know that there are others out there. People just like me. People looking to break the silence. And yet, there are no discussions. No ribbons. No awareness drawn to the issue. It is the biggest secret that most people will never tell.

As a result, there are a lot of things we don’t know about controlling the problem or reversing the spread. Questions remain unanswered. Resources are outdated or hard to come by. And, in our absence of education about the matter, many of us are doomed to failures that will result in becoming infected again. And if you are like most sane people in the world, once you have suffered with this you will never, EVER want to experience it again. So, despite my shy nature, my mother’s lessons in etiquette, and my hope to retain a shred of dignity, I am opening up about what I have learned in my fight against these invaders.

1. The First Pinworm Egg. Ever.

The first question most people with this upsetting problem will ask is “How did I get this?!” Truly, it could come from any number of places. But, most likely, as surely as you are reading this, you have a small child in your life (whom you love dearly) that is the sole culprit. And it’s not their fault, exactly.

They probably go to school. And the playground. And the library. And interact with other kids who go to other schools. And playgrounds. And libraries. And all of them, especially the youngest ones, do the things that grown-ups only do in private. They scratch their bottoms. And if their bottoms are coated in pinworm eggs, then chances are those grubby little fingers will also have at least 1,000 eggs just waiting to be smeared all over any surface they can grab. Hand rails. Door knobs. Books. Toys. Walls. Or, best of all, adult hands who love the feeling of their child’s warmth and innocent embrace.

Scientists have calculated that anywhere from 10-40% of children have pinworms. So, I’m not saying don’t hold your child’s hand – just be aware that you may be holding onto so much more life than you realize!

2. Pinworms Eat Shit And Then Die. But Before They Do, They Lay Lots Of Eggs.

It’s true. Their food supply is that endless trough of waste that comes through our bodies. Yesterday’s Chinese take-out. That piece of fried chicken we ate for dinner. Or perhaps this morning’s bagel. They thrive off of our “leftovers” and will scavenge until they get the nutrients they need.

And, just when it seems they will eat anything, apparently even pinworms have preferences. They tend to become empowered if we eat mass quantities of meat and sugar. But, fruits and vegetables, not so much. They will spit them out like any petulant child. Everyone is a critic, I suppose!

The best part of their “date night” ritual, though, is that after they have had a great, big meal, they do what any star-crossed pair would do. They copulate. Then, while doing their best Romeo and Juliet imitation, the male dies as the female makes her way down the colon to the anus, where she will then lay her best 10,000 eggs before dying. Oh, it would all be poetic if it weren’t so very gross.

3. Pinworms Eggs Are Microscopic.

This is probably the most terrifying fact of all. It means that they can be anywhere. Everywhere. And since they are too small to be seen by the naked eye, they are likely in places that you would least suspect. Kitchen counters. Door knobs. Toothbrushes. Toys. Computer keyboards. The possibilities are truly endless. And they aren’t just on these things for a little while. Nope. They can set up shop and remain as a potential hazard for up to three weeks. THREE WEEKS!

For those of you counting, that’s 21 days. Depending on your personality, it can either be 21 days of blissful naïveté in not knowing what is around you….or, if you’re like me, it can be 21 days of being ultra-paranoid that everything you touch could be contaminated. If you are the latter, Clorox wipes will become your new best friend. So will hand-washing. That is, until your hands start to crack, bleed and mourn the loss of your more sensible past-life.

4. Pinworm Eggs Can Be Airborne.

As if the whole microscopic thing weren’t bad enough, pinworm eggs are virtually weightless. That’s not a big deal, per se, unless you realize that this means that one slight gust of wind (say, from walking across a room, changing your clothes or sneezing) can cause them to breeze through the air, going along from one object to another, virtually catapulting along until they find their final resting place in your gut. All it takes is an innocuous activity. One time of rustling papers or sorting through a clothes hamper. You can breathe them in without knowing it, just like you can inadvertently eat them without seeing them. Again, the possibilities of transmission are seemingly endless.

So, not only can every surface be contaminated, but every motion can spread the bio-hazard. The best thing to do, for those of you unable to sit fearfully still in one spot for three weeks at a time, is to simply clean everything! If you can see it, you should clean it. Wipe down all surfaces with a bleach-laced wipe. Dunk plastic toys in a bleach/water solution. Anything that can be washed in the dishwasher or washing machine should be washed. The floors should be mopped or vacuumed. Pretend your mother-in-law is coming over and scrub, scrub, scrub. If it helps, even imagine that you are hosting a stately dinner party or inviting George Clooney over for the night. Just do whatever it takes to get that house clean(er).

5. UV Light and Heat Destroy Eggs.

Everyone is afraid of something. Pinworms are no exception. They fear two things: UV light and heat. These are the two things that can bring them down. Since we can’t just open up our roof and douse every inch of our homes in warm sunlight, the next best thing you can do is open your curtains. Let the light in. And then wash your clothes, pajamas, towels, bed sheets, blankets and washcloths in the warmest water possible. Dry them with an even hotter heat. And then do it all again…just to be sure. If you repeat this process constantly over the course of treatment, you will likely get rid of the bulk of the household problem.

6. Pinworms Hate Pineapple, Papaya, Pumpkin Seeds, and Garlic.

Some people like to think holistically. Personally, when I am faced with a challenge, I prefer to think in a more nuclear fashion. I don’t usually have the patience or the nerves to “wait out” the enemy. I prefer instead to “nuke” the problem and make it magically go away. Of course, with that said, it doesn’t hurt to add a little holistic warfare to the mix. As they say – “Can’t hurt, might help!”

So, in terms of natural remedies, it has been touted that the acidic nature of pineapple makes pinworms shrivel up and die. As for why they don’t like papaya, pumpkin seeds, or garlic, I am not exactly certain of the science behind them; but, these treatments have been around for centuries. And who am I to balk at them?! Anyway, whether or not they actually do any good, it may not be a bad idea to eat them like their going out of style during this critical time. After all, there’s nothing wrong with overdoing it…is there?

7. Hand-Washing Is Your New Job.

Seriously. If you want to bring these worms down, you have to wash hands at least a million times a day. No joke. Wash them after you go to the bathroom. Before you touch your baby. After you change his diaper. Before you get lunch ready. After you have touched the cereal boxes. Before you make lunch. After you have cleaned the dishes. Before you brush your teeth. After you pick up toys. Before you touch your iPad. It will start to feel like you live (and may even die) at the sink. But, despite how ashy, cracked and painful your hands will become, remember the old adage – cleanliness is godliness – and then pity those poor chafed deities from mythology! If you are not as stoic as they were, don’t be afraid to lotion up like a prepubescent boy! Trust me! It will be your only saving grace.

8. Buy Pinworm Medication Online. Avoid (Some) Embarrassment.

So, it’s not just bad enough that you have this problem. Or that your family may have it, too. Or even that you have had to endure 900 loads of laundry in a mere four days time. Nope. The cherry on top of this entire experience will come when you must make that painfully embarrassing trip to the store to buy the medication. I personally tried to accomplish this at a large chain store. More specifically, Target. And, you know, nobody shops at Target. Nobody!

As people were milling around, on the day that I was there, it seemed that everyone had some small stake in the pharmacy section. People were walking back and forth, up and down the aisles, as I had never seen before. I thought I had remembered those aisles previously being barren and desolate – but maybe I had been thinking of CVS instead. Either way, I tried to wait out the crowds. However, after thirty minutes of pretending to check out different brands of deodorant, I realized that I just had to suck it up and get what I came to get. And to do that I would need to talk to the pharmacist.

When I got the nerve up, I quietly and discreetly asked for the medication, only to have the (young bastard) pharmacist ask me to repeat it not once, not twice, but three times! Then, in his loudest voice, he proclaimed “Ah, yes, pinworm medicine. That should be on aisle 23. But, we have some right here, too!” He handed me the box with not a shred of remorse as an odd array of customers looked sideways at my secret. Oh, joy, I thought. How very helpful. And humiliating.

It was only after I got home that I realized Amazon and Drugstore.com also sold such things. And if I had just bought it from them, I wouldn’t have had to endure such a scene. So, lesson learned, I would strongly recommend that these things be purchased online and kept on hand for whenever the need will arise. And, as long as you have kids, the need will arise.

9. Take Two (Or Three…Or Four) Rounds Of The Medication.

The box of the pinworm medication says that one round of medication is all it takes to clear up your problem. WRONG! Since the medication only kills the adults and not the eggs, it would behoove you to take another round or two (or three) just to make sure any wayward eggs are destroyed. After all, who wants to do all of this housework and laundry only to turn around and have to do it again in a few weeks. I mean, except for the fact that you will have to do it anyway…but, who’s counting. Somehow it just seems worse when it’s forced upon you by tiny organisms crawling out of your backside.

10. For All Of Their Ickiness, Pinworms Don’t Really “Do” Anything To People.

Yeah, I know I have reacted to these creatures as though they were the worst invaders known to man. In my most horrified moments, I even have had nightmares that they were the size of earthworms and had sharp, pointed teeth like a young puppy. But, as we know, that is not the case at all. In earnest, my behavior, my frenzy, could be chalked up to the simple fact that this is my phobia. (Really, it’s #4 on the list of at least 20 thought-consuming fears – but that’s another topic in and of itself!)

As most are aware, a phobia is an extreme or irrational fear of something. Pinworms are gross, they are pesky, they are inconvenient, but they are NOT life-threatening. They are not the boogey men they may seem. They do not really harm people. They simply want to find a nice warm place to live where they can set up a metaphorical white-picket fence, raise a few (thousand) kids, and die after having a decent time on this planet. Just like us. The only difference is that their house is a colon and they like to raise their kids on an anus. So, maybe it could be said that they are no different than the residents of New Jersey. 

11. You Have To Pull Yourself Together. For The Kids.

I know that I most likely got these things from my daughter. I know she is often the Typhoid Mary of our household. And I know in years to come we will find ourselves facing many more battles with the things she brings home (viruses, pets, boyfriends). But, though this may be true, it is important not to fall apart and blame her for this nightmare.

As much as I wanted to unfurl the hazmat suit and spray toxic substances all over our entire quarantined home, my better judgment pulled back the reigns and made me realize what is important. My family. My husband. My son. My daughter. They may all be carriers of some sort of pestilence. They may have infected me. They may even infect me again. But, it is important not to fall apart over it. Or make them feel insecure, unloved and dirty.

Yes, it is hard to keep the heebee-jeebee’s from getting to me some days. There are moments when I sit on the toilet and cry, thinking of all of the prospective problems that we will face one day (a recurrence of this one problem included). But, the hippies do have it right about one thing – we should really just live in the moment, because it is the only thing we truly have. Well, and worms, too. But at least that will soon change, I hope.

Nothing Means Anything: Anarchy for the New Year


resolutions
The new year begins with resolutions, self-reflection and an endless cesspool of thoughts relating to the umpteen ways I did not measure up to last year’s goals. And with so many metaphorical bruises I have given to myself, it almost seems unfair to hope for change. After all, how can I even muster the strength to transform myself when I am obviously at an emotional disadvantage?! That’s why this year, a year like every other, when I have already started to nit-pick over a new set of failures, I decided to try this one anti-resolution instead: live life unchecked.

That’s right! Live life. Unchecked! In other words, fuck that little voice in my head that says “Don’t eat that piece of chocolate, you fat cow!” Fuck that shiny quarter who believes itself to be intended for the “swear jar” just because of a momentary fit of road rage. Fuck the PTA and HOA who constantly make me feel like I’m not being a good (enough) citizen. Fuck Dr. Oz, Deepak Chopra, “Hands Free Mama” and any other person who claims to have all of the answers (for a mere $24.99). Fuck pretentious friends and presumptuous people. Fuck the Joneses – fuck their manicured lawns, their shiny new cars, and their vacation pictures. Fuck Facebook and those who feel a constant need to post on it. Fuck Pinterest and all those crafty bitches who can’t stop making shit. Fuck scales and numbers, fads and fashion, comparison shopping and coupon clipping. Fuck everything. Why? Because I have come to realize that none of it means anything. That’s right. Nothing! As the Buddhists would concur, it’s all just an illusion.

Case in point, I have one friend who is Vegan. She chooses not to eat any animal products because of the ethical issues surrounding their treatment. And while that is all fine and good, she does love to peruse the world on her iPad – which, ironically, is one of the most cruel devices known to man. On the surface it wouldn’t seem so; but, taking a closer look, the poor laborers who assemble them make roughly 10 cents a week, live in a studio-apartment-sized dormitory with seven other people and have “suicide” nets surrounding their prison/office. Cruelty-free life?! Not quite. Oh, and another interesting note about this person: she likes to shoplift. A lot.

And then there is another person I know, one who presents her surface life as fictionally grand though in truth it is earnestly vacant. She is always busy doing endless crafts to adorn her home, making all of the other moms stand in shame because they didn’t think to make more of a celebration of Arbor Day or Independence Day, just like she did, by making children’s handprints into trees or cakes look like flags. Picture perfect to a tee. We all know this type. And yet her kids are total and complete assholes. Period. And while we shouldn’t judge a child any more than we should judge an unfinished painting….let’s just say, it’s clear that some forms of coddling and catering can’t be cured by time. They will be, without a doubt, people who have greatly inflated ideas of their own worth to the detriment of all others. CEO’s in the making!

Even further on the rungs of examples are the myriad of people I know in therapy. Paying people to “fix” their flaws, work through their “issues” and being charged hefty sums…for years…with no end in sight. And how much more sane or content are these folks? Probably less than the homeless guy on the corner! And he ate a day-old moldy burger out of the trash. Yeah.

So, then what are the answers?? Heck if I know. That’s not what this is about. But if I were to guess, I would say that no one knows. Not your sister, your pastor, your lawyer or your lover. We are all just groping in the dark. Without any answers. Without any guidance. People walk around in a state of belief that they are somehow different; but, no one is. We are all, unquestionably, failing in some way or another. And none of it means anything. It doesn’t make us any less important. Or special. It doesn’t mean we don’t deserve happiness or respect. It’s just the truth that we all try to ignore. Especially during the beginning of a new year.

With that in mind, one may wonder what it would mean to live a life unchecked. Does it mean there’s no conscience? No responsibilities? A free-for-all? Anarchy?! Ha! I wish. Simply, it means this year, for once, I will no longer compare myself to others. I will end the need to aim for other people’s unattainable goals. I will stop focusing on illusions and cease using the phrase “If they could do it, so can I.” I will close my Facebook account. And my Pinterest account. And will never, ever go to an Old Navy changing room again.

I will eat when I’m hungry, rest when I’m tired, work out when I’m motivated and do all of the things I need to do to sustain life, forsaking the rest unless desiring them in truth. In other words, I will do what makes me and my family happy. I will put my heart and soul into the things I care about. And I will be okay with the fact that I will sometimes fail. And the fact that sometimes those failures will make me sad or mad. But I will not let lofty dreams of unattainable quests (for self, for family, for creative or personal goals) set me up for upset. I will not buy into fantasies. I will live, not for tomorrow, but for right now. Today. The only thing I truly have of value. And I will not center my life around those holograms (of perfect weight, of perfect families, of perfect lives) that are meant to only torture souls.

This year my resolution is simple: I will live. And, I don’t know for sure, but I think that’s the whole point.