This month food journalist Sarah Pinneo celebrates the publication of her comedic novel Julia’s Child, about a foodie mom who takes herself too seriously. Sarah writes about food, family and fiction from the wilds of Hanover, NH where she lives with her husband, two sons and their cumbersome heap of hockey gear.

The farmers’ market was mobbed, and I was in a hurry. With the dollar bills in my hand, only one customer stood between me and paying for my dozen grass fed organic free range eggs. But the woman in front of me couldn’t stop adding things to her order.

“I WANT IT!” her toddler demanded from his perch on her hip. He jabbed his finger at the multicolored carrots. The woman smiled like a starlet and handed the carrots to the sweaty teen behind the table. “MINE!” the little boy said once again, this time in reference to some pink fingerling potatoes.

“How can you say no?” she gushed, as the line behind her only grew longer “to a toddler who only wants his vegetables?” The tyrannical tyke next demanded some cranberry beans, and my irritation tripled. Not only was I short on time, but her smug, theatrical tone made me cringe.

You see, I’m afraid I had once affected that same smug tone. And I really don’t care to be reminded of it.

I have two goofy sons, who are now 6 and 8, who will eat—and always have eaten—everything. When that book came out—the one about hiding spinach in brownies—I was dumbstruck. Because my kids eat spinach by the truckload. Raw or cooked. They eat broccoli, beans, squash and kale. One of them will only eat beets hot, not cold. But I try not to hold it against him.

And yes, I have succumbed to the delight of watching other adults’ eyes pop in surprise. At our neighborhood Italian restaurant, my six year-old is known as “that kid who wants extra spinach on his.” At a very upscale Japanese restaurant we visited on vacation last spring, the young server was stunned to hear my children order ikura sushi and tako—salmon eggs and octopus. “I didn’t eat that until I was an adult!” she gasped. “And I’m Asian!”

Sometimes people’s reactions make me think that it must be really bad out there. “You’re the first kid to order the veal medallions in fennel and lemon butter sauce,” a waitress said recently, to which I could only say “really?” Because that dish is just meat and potatoes.

For a few years, I was even naïve enough to take credit for their gastronomic fearlessness. It’s my adventurous spirit, I wanted to believe. It’s my relaxed attitude! It’s because I put a vegetable on the table every night. It’s because have never served chicken fingers at home, or macaroni and cheese from a box.

I am such a great mom, right?

Cue the laugh track.

World, I am sorry. I now understand how that line of thinking backfires. If all their behavior were modeled on mine, dear reader, then you’d have to assume that I also pick my nose and use my tee shirt as a napkin.

So, if not from my excellent parenting, then from whence do their adventurous palates spring? It’s likely just the peculiar alchemy of birth order and our own personalities: take one laid-back older child, add a little brother with something to prove, and season with an adventurous father. Somehow, at our table, it’s just not cool to be a food wimp.

An even better theory is that they eat adventurously because early on I prohibited it. I was a nervous new mother, doing everything by the book. Baby’s first meal should be exactly one tablespoon of rice cereal mixed with breast milk; feed in 1/8 teaspoon increments and watch for the debilitating allergic reaction.

Don’t worry, I’m over it now. But because of my caution, we never urged our boys to taste oysters and mussels (favorites of my now 8yo) in the high chair. Instead, my attitude was: “no! You can’t possibly want that! You’re the baby! You’ll choke! Have some more of this pureed slime from a jar.”

Living in New York City, we at sushi. A lot. We always put the cooked dishes in front of our toddler—a little teriyaki chicken, or avocado maki. But it didn’t take long for the little tyke to notice that daddy’s chopsticks held something different. So he pointed at the mackerel sashimi, and daddy came through.

It’s reverse psychology, baby. Which is, of course, impossible to pull off unless you don’t know you’re doing it. I found myself sheepishly inquiring of the pediatrician whether it was alright for toddlers to eat raw fish. This being Manhattan, he shrugged and told us his children ate sushi all the time.

So, as a result of parental blundering, I enjoy freedom from mealtime battles. But there are drawbacks. If you have adventurous gourmet eaters, they’re going to reject the ordinary food eventually. Remember all that sushi? For a year or so my kids stopped eating cooked fish. This was agonizing, because fish is healthy, and I’m no sushi chef. Toddlers eating expensive restaurant sushi is cute. Two growing school-aged boys wolfing down sushi after a soccer double header is a pricey splurge. And then there’s the snob factor. Imagine your round-faced three year old looking up at an overworked waitress in a diner somewhere off the highway and asking her “what are the specials?”

Sometimes, it just isn’t cute. Not at all.

But because I’ve had it easy at the dinner table, there are certain vantages I can see. When one of my kids says he doesn’t like something, you can bet I don’t say a word. It isn’t that I have terrific restraint, it’s just that I really don’t care. If a kid who eats rutabaga and salmon Provencal and split pea soup and stuffed peppers informs you that today he doesn’t like the capers in the pasta sauce, color me underwhelmed.

I can’t tell you how to have adventurous eaters, because I realize I don’t deserve credit for the two I have. But what I can offer you is the first-hand knowledge that not talking about eating your vegetables is really nice.

So I hereby give you permission, the next time you’re having one of those moments, to just let it go. Let’s say you’ve ordered Chinese because sometimes your three year old really grooves on chicken & broccoli, and he hasn’t eaten anything green in weeks except for a lime popsicle, yet tonight he won’t touch it. This time, I want you to close your eyes and imagine that he usually eats like a Michelin rated French chef. Pretend that just yesterday he polished off fresh root vegetables dipped in spicy hummus, miso soup with tofu and bean shoots in sesame oil.

I insist that you take the night off from caring. Pass your child that bag of weird little fried noodles that the restaurant threw in as an afterthought, and let him dine on those. As for the chicken and broccoli? Say: “more for me!” and pour yourself a glass of wine. Enjoy the truce. And you never know—perhaps your silence will turn the tide.

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If you have one child, likely your parenting and discipline are constant. You say no and are done with it. When you add in child number two, though, especially within under three years, you are now busier, pulled in more than one direction. You cannot do it all. You relax the rules a bit. With one child you steadfastly say no. When you have two, you might still say no to the first, but the second is younger and less manageable while you fry chicken so, well, maybe. Maybe you can have marshmallows for dinner. By child number three, you’re squarely in first kid = no. Second kid = Maybe. Third = Why yes, yes you can. Anything beyond three kids and it’s a free-for-all: do what the hell you want, just spare me and most of the Fritos.

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You try. You try to fight it and say these under five footers do NOT run this house. They are NOT in charge. And then you realize you are talking to the inside of the refrigerator because yes, they do own you and your mind because that cabbage cannot respond to you verbally. You are the feed me, drive me, play with me, feed me again, wipe my butt person. AKA: Mommy. And it’s ok. It’s ok to change your parenting methods as you go. There is nothing that says that what worked for your first will work for the second (or eighth). There is no written rule that says that ice cream can’t be for breakfast. It’s dairy. Like yogurt, only colder.

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With our first daughter, who is now 11, we were so determined, so adamant at minimizing TV. She watched so infrequently she was nearly three before she knew who Elmo was. Her days were filled with puzzles and books and coloring. Our second daughter is now eight and by the time she was one, our first daughter was getting more TV but still not as much as she wanted. The second, though, was watching upwards of an hour a day. Because it kept her quiet. And me sane. And then there’s the boy. The boy is now two and unfortunately, I am unable to divulge how much TV he watches because you will surely call the people on us.

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It is laziness. TV is easy. And it’s winter. In summer, he’d be outside rather than in front of the TV. And it is mass electronics — it started with my old iPhone to keep him quiet in the car (have you ever tried to make it the last two blocks home praying to the almighty YouTube gods to please, please, please let that video not make it from M to Z before we get there)? Then we let him have the girls’ DSIs because they played music. And then we turned to the computer for YouTube or a movie while I cooked. Showered. Pooped. Napped. Shut up.

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Yes, I sat him at the computer or TV because too many times I found myself saying I need to cook dinner and he’s standing on my feet hanging onto my belt loops and if he tugs again my pants’ll come down and your mother is visiting and hasn’t yet seen my bare ass and I’m not sure she’s looking forward to it, so find the fucking remote.

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Interestingly (surely not to them) the girls are not allowed to watch TV during the week. “It’ll warp your brains.” But the boy? The number three? The why, yes, yes you can? He pushes his chair over to the computer, turns it on, and hands you the movie of his choice. The oldest girl says quite perturbed, “It’s unfair that he gets to look at something every day and we can’t watch TV until Friday.” I am a parenting wizard, I tell you, and it took me mere minutes to decide to pretend I hadn’t heard her. I should come up with a response, though, for when she actually directs this truth to me.

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And you know what? As much as I dislike how much TV he watches, I embrace the option to let it babysit him a bit while I get a load of clothes out of the dryer. We make lists about how we want things to go from the birth to nursing or not, from toddlerhood to TV to food to discipline. We have the best intentions but sometimes it just works out the way it does. I’ve stopped beating myself up over it and you should too. As long as you know you’re doing everything in your power to keep your kids safe, their homework is finished, their stomachs are full, you know their friends and their parents, they aren’t beating classmates with wooden blocks, smoking crack, or taking guns to school — the TV is unlikely to ruin them.

(Any more than you singing Hammer Time! and doing the typewriter dance in the school parking lot will.)

Pinterest: The photo sharing website that has people who’ve never tweeted or dug or stumbled ohhing and ahhing and drooling and pinning like it’s their job. Everything is just so pretty and perfect and amazing and inspiring, it’s easy to understand why. Well, yes, that’s true, but there’s a reason I no longer have an account there. Because it makes me feel like shit.

I know that I’m not the craftiest mother on the block, but after Pinterest, I feel like an utter creative failure. Clothespins with outfits drawn on? Pfft. People are building play kitchens! From old Ikea bookcases! With their own bare hands! My cooking may be tasty, but it’s certainly far from pin-worthy and my house looks downright filthy compared to the boards on the site.

Surely, I can’t be the only mother feeling less than adequate compared to that perfection. So, as a service to any of you who might be feeling similarly, I’d like to offer a few snapshots into my life. Guess which ones they are.

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A loving breakfast.

http://pinterest.com/pin/53761789271212076/

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Laundry, laundry, laundry.

http://pinterest.com/pin/37788084343262765/

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 Playroom.

http://pinterest.com/pin/206602701625522332/

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A child’s bed.

http://pinterest.com/pin/210332245066882609/

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Frosting.

http://pinterest.com/pin/46091596155846694/

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Clothing organization.

http://pinterest.com/pin/155726099585050529/

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Arts & Crafts

http://pinterest.com/pin/33003009738801181/

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Now, don’t you feel better about yourself?

Pete is the Managing Editor of KCBS KCAL TV Los Angeles. He is currently cowering in a house with a wife and two little girls and cringing every time the girls use their new, favorite word “vagina”. He’s turned his Dadmissions into a book which he hopes to publish before the girls grow old. You can find him on Facebook at “Dadmissions the Book”

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The holidays have blown by, we’re in a new year, the wrapping paper and credit cards have all been stashed with care (or not)… So I’ve finally taken a breather and gotten down to thinking about gifts and giving… Not what to give, or how much to give, but what to take away and how quickly to take it. Call it Parental Gift Etiquette.

I don’t care what the event is: in the buildup to the next birthday, graduation, bar mitzvah, or any event where a gift is given, kids will always ask for that next, great, must-have, seen on TV, can’t live without it or I’ll absolutely die, gift. Almost immediately, once the gift request is formally made to mom and dad, we begin to threaten the kids they won’t get their most-wanted gift IF they misbehave. For example, I might say, “Speak to me that way one more time, and see if you get that Ipod you want.” But we all know eventually they get the gift anyway, unless you are a cold, heartless, and ruthless parent (Kris Jenner, Michael Lohan, any of the parents on Toddlers and Tiaras).

Now, fast-forward a week, a few days, or who am I kidding, even a couple of minutes after the birthday, graduation, bar mitzvah, or other gift event. Almost immediately, once the gift has been opened, we begin the process of then threatening to take away those most-wanted gifts which are now already in the kids’ possession. For example, I might say, “I warned you not to speak to me that way again, so hand over that Ipod.”

It seems to me the whole process needs streamlining. So here’s what I propose.

Why don’t we sit down with the kids… let them pick out their favorite gifts… have them acknowledge they’ll eventually misbehave… and then agree to just never get the gifts to begin with. See how it works kids? You pick a gift, acknowledge you can’t behave, and then just never get the gift to begin with. It’s a sort-of pre-punishment which saves moms and dads both time and money, and the tantrums associated with taking a gift away. Instead of regifting, I’d like to refer to this as PRE-gifting. We solve it all ahead of time. And then when it comes to birthdays or Christmas or whatever the big gift reveal is, we just pull out the pre-gifting contract where we all agreed ahead of time not to bother with toys or other gifts because the kids eventually won’t behave.

“I warned you not to speak to me that way again… Let’s just consult the pre-gifting contract.”

“We the undersigned kids agree that it’s impossible for us to behave and therefore we’ll never get to keep the coveted gift we so want. We agree in the pre-gifting arrangement where we will pick out a gift, but then never receive it, thus cutting out the middle man. We further agree that any tantrum or yelling is really pointless since we never actually got any gift to begin with and therefore nothing has actually been taken away from us.”

Now isn’t that easy!

I ran into an acquaintance at school the other day. Barely slowing down our respective paces in the hallway, she quickly noted, “the book’s coming out soon — excited!?”

“Yes!” I’m sure she expected to hear. “I’m super excited,” as we each made our way towards the parking lot. Of course I would be excited about my upcoming book release. What else would I possibly be feeling? It was the equivalent of asking “how are you” and anticipating a “fine” in response. Practically obligatory.

Unfortunately for this acquaintance, I’m a bit of an over-sharer. And also, a bit of a mess.

“Excited? Um, I wouldn’t say that’s the word, exactly” I began, dropping my bag onto the ground.

“Actually,” I sighed, I’m totally freaking out.”

“I mean, what if the book doesn’t sell? I put so much of myself into it, what if people don’t relate? What if nobody wants to help spread the word? What if the critics tear it apart? What if my publisher is disappointed with the sales? What if I make a fool of myself when I’m promoting it? What if I get stage fright at a reading?”

I took a breath.

“I know, I know, it’s great to just have written a book and I should just appreciate that and enjoy the ride. Who cares if it doesn’t do well? I’ll survive, right? I know. But I can’t enjoy it. I don’t know why I can’t, but I can’t.”

I sighed and leaned against the wall for support.

“I am excited, I guess, but there are just so many other emotions, too. I’m just not used to this kind of pressure, you know? I’m not normally accountable like this and I don’t think it’s good for me. It’s scary. I mean—”

“Ah! Hold on a sec,” the acquaintance interrupted me as she fumbled for her completely silent phone.

“I think I heard this ring and it must be important. Oh, it is. Very important. Good luck!”

She bolted off without looking back, whispering to an imaginary friend about an imaginary emergency that took her away from a very real crazy person. I haven’t seen her since and I’m pretty sure she switched pre-schools just to avoid another potential run-in with me. Can’t say I blame her at all.

The moral of the story is: Don’t ask how I’m feeling about the book unless you really want to know the answer. And, you don’t. Trust me.

My mom, who is as anti-medication as one can possibly get, has begun practically ramming Xanax down my throat.

My agent gets frequent frantic 3AM e-mails from me as I lie awake at night, my mind racing with things which would never dawn on me at normal hours.

My husband is about ready to move into the unfinished, mouse-infested, pipe-exposed basement for the next three months just to not have to interact with me.

My friends have suddenly gone missing.

So, I’m turning to you, my dear readers. For my sanity, for my fingernails, for my marriage — hell, FOR THE CHILDREN — won’t you buy a book? (here) If you already have, or if you really want to make my day, will you consider sharing it with your friends?

I’m not too cool to admit that I am stalking the pre-sale numbers somewhat obsessively. Alright, completely obsessively. Basically, each book purchase is like a tiny sanity pill for me to pop. That makes the ten dollar purchase practically a medical deduction for you, and ensures a less crazy Jill for the three months to come.

I think it’s best for all of us. I’m much better at scary than crazy.

WineWhineWellbutrin is where crazy meets comfortable. Pamela is a mother of three whiny but lovable boys. She began writing to help maintain her sanity amongst her daily struggles of neurotic hilarity occurring in her household. Come join the circus–cry, laugh, curse and sing with us.

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My best friend, Andrea, is a mommy. Not just ANY mommy, mind you: she is my hero. She’s a SUV driving, kid chauffeuring, pet sitting, housekeeping, queen of coffee sipping/front porch gabbing, charity donating, church going, tell you like it is, best friend to the whole world (including me) AND she’s a mommy to three young children under the age of fourteen. Andrea is, to be frank, the bomb. The friend of all friends, mother of all mothers– we all want to be Andrea when we grow up. Everyone needs an Andrea in their lives. You may borrow her but please don’t take mine, mmmkay?

That being said, she and have not talked in a few weeks due to the chaotic joy of parenthood and self employment. I thought of her randomly out of the blue today and realized all of the roles she has played in my life: best friend, housekeeper, potty trainer to my stubborn kids, nanny, shoulder to cry on, alarm clock, coffee server, life coach, and probably so much more, even. The following is Andrea’s card (but again, if you steal her I’ll kick you square in the hoo ha, you got that?)

During the midst of my husband’s feud with the vacuum cleaner, I began to think about exactly what type of cleaning service I needed these days. Something archaically disgusting and unidentifiable got stuck in the tube on the way to the chamber; apparently the problem was larger than DH could manage, and I suddenly began to miss my Andrea.

Mind you, Andrea isn’t just any regular housekeeper, she’s a deep cleaner. She cannot clean a house without scrubbing every square inch of the house, including the baseboards, the blinds and that spot behind your curio cabinet collecting spiders. Being that she is also a pet sitter, she knows precisely where all the pet hair, dust mites, bedbugs, fleas, etc, take cover. The last time we hired her, she said, “Oh no problem, just give me an hour.” An hour turned into three when she noticed I collect dust bunnies in every couch crook and corner of our home. “I couldn’t let that just sit there honey,” she calmly said as she disinfected every inch of what we initially thought was only a semi-dirty home. She left it immaculate and sparkling.

Sometimes however, since my time is so scarce, I need someone to come in really quickly, and just get it the fuck done in an hour, and then go home, dust bunnies left to breed under my couch. With this in mind, I’d like you to also consider the perfect on-the-go cleaning service for those of you who don’t have the time or money to pay someone to manage the baseboards, under the toilet seat rim, under every shower’s arm pit, bath tub’s butt hole drain, or mattress’ hair follicle. As I put my DH to work today, I watched him lovingly, and thought, “OH! He’s hired!”

Without further ado, allow me to present to you, “Dad’s Get it The F$%^ Done” Cleaning Service.

Services, include, and are definitely limited to the following:

1) Vacuuming: Five swipes of a vacuum per room. Service does not include moving the couch (or your cat), picking up toys, clothes or anything in the way of the vacuum. Disclaimer: If the vacuum happens to break due to said toys, cats, etc. in the way, replacement of said items/animals is the liability of the homeowner.

2) Dishes: Including pre-washing of dishes via a five minute soak in warm water in your sink (any scrubbing involved is not included), and then via the use of a sling shot, projecting each dish into the dishwasher and overloading it. The dishwasher will be ran on the oh-fuck-that’s hot, ball scalding setting. Disclaimer: It is your responsibility to separate and hand wash delicate ceramics, pottery, nonstick pots and china.

3) Kitchen: With the wipe of the same rag I used to wipe up the cat’s puke yesterday one dishrag over each service approximately four times, your marble will be streaking like Ray Stevens spotless! Disclaimer: Marble or stainless steel polishing not included.

4) Bathrooms: Using whatever cheap-ass off brand foaming cleaner I can find top of the line, heavy duty, industrial bathroom cleaner, all sinks, tubs, showers and toilets will be cleaned spotlessly and with the same cloth laundry efficiently! Disclaimer: Cleaning of the following areas of the toilet are not included as we’d then have to admit that men do indeed spray like a fire hose when taking a piss: toilet base, in between the lid and the rim, and the areas in no man’s land underneath the rim.

5) Laundry: Laundry will be washed time efficiently, without separation, and also overloaded. Due to said load efficiency, the dryer may be stopped, kicked viciously, then restarted once every fifteen minutes. Moving of loads from the washer to the dryer is an extra charge. Disclaimer: The use of fabric softer, bleach and dryer sheets is beyond my mental grasp. You run the risk of bleaching your dryer and having dryer sheets in your washer if you ask me to discern the specific algorithmic equation involved in the use of  such laundry paraphernalia.  

6) Dusting: With the gingerly swipe of a feather duster, all areas in between nick-knacks, books and photos on shelves will be dust bunny friendly. Remember dust bunnies and dust mites deserve to live and reproduce, too!

7) Trash: Bag will be taken from the trash can, tied and placed in any random corner of your kitchen.

8) Organization: Shoes, toys, game boys, legos, hotwheel cars, etc, will be kicked under or behind the couch. Any toys on the couch will be shoved into the couch cushions. Any bills, paperwork/other important file-able items will be shoved into any drawer within reach in the kitchen.

Did you know that, in addition to being an expert ass wiper, superb sandwich maker, and multi-tasker extraordinaire, that I am also an esteemed scientist? I mean, how else would I be able to come up with this?

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Years of clinical research, right here.

Gin is a mom, gran, artist, scratch cook, raw chef, Naturopath, guru, and knowledge seeker who has worn many hats and loves living life!  Presently she in the thick of resurrecting her Montessori teaching materials (previously used on her daughters) and is using them on her 19 month old granddaughter…everything comes around again! You can find her at reinventionville.posterous.com.

It was a cold February evening in 2001, when my younger daughter and I were in the car driving to pick up my older daughter from a school party.  With my left turn signal flashing, I was stopped, ready to turn left, when we were rear ended by a drunk driver driving one of those extended cab Ford Trucks.  Needless to say, our lives were changed in an instant.  We both received closed head trauma (concussions), aches, pains, and I received a broken molar from biting my teeth together so hard upon impact.  Well, the fork in the road of our lives was put upon us.  Funny when you are in the midst of severe change, I can attest you cannot see the forest for the trees.

I was ANGRY.  I could not listen to a radio ad phone number and remember it long enough to write it down.  My memory was severely altered.  So was my daughters’.  How could a man drink for hours at a bar, and then jump in his truck and drive?  Heck, after he hit us he staggered from his truck to our car to talk.  Thank goodness the police had already arrived.  How could someone do that to my child?

My life continued in a daze.  I was also in a bit of denial that my injury was quite severe.  Denial felt good lest my world unwind like a spool of thread.  I didn’t cry much either, because I felt if I did, I wouldn’t stop crying.  I was different.  I wanted to have the ability to decide when I wanted to be different or not, that’s not a choice I was ever willing to give to a drunk driver.

What I know now, when we do not make the small changes to evolve in everyday life, larger events come along to propel us forward to fulfill our purpose here on earth.  This was my HUGE wake-up call.

Let me share, I am a determined person.  I did ANGRY proud.  I was angry at the drunk driver.  I was angry at God.  I was angry at my ex-husband because he did not know how to comfort me.  I was angry because I couldn’t read and recall as I had before.  I was angry because the trauma had also triggered a release of old thoughts, beliefs, wounds, and the anger was affecting my health.  You know, stirred up all that “stuff” so neatly compartmentalized and swept under that rug…yes, that very lumpy rug.

I am grateful that because of my head trauma, and my daughters, I launched into learning about natural ways to heal the brain, which lead to my studying to become a Naturopath, Nutrition Coach, Life Coach, Master Herbalist, and Raw Chef, (to name a few stops on my path so far).  Though I was struggling through illness, emotional cleansing, taking care of my family, I soldiered on.

In retrospect, I was a fine example of the law of attraction and like attracts like.  For almost 2 years my head was healing because I was taking the appropriate supplements, eating high nutrition foods, and drinking plenty of green drinks, but the anger was eating away at my endocrine system.  The last straw came when a polyp on my parathyroid gland interrupted the calcium balance in my body and had to be removed.  The thought came to my mind, “There aren’t enough organs for the doctors to keep cutting out of my body, and I must take responsibility for my own wellness.”  Enough!  I wanted to change my thoughts to heal my body and learn more about alternative health and wellness to have more knowledge to help myself and my family.  I began to enroll in distance learning classes in alternative health and I attended many alternative health weekend seminars.

Fast forward 5 years, my head continues to heal, I have my memory back, I am thinking fast, and I am faced with divorce from a man who treated me well, but lied for YEARS about important things.  Why would someone lie to me like that?  So I made a few appointments with my neuropsychologist who saw me after the accident.  At one appointment I am droning on how “I’m different now” and “I’ve been betrayed by my husband.”  He said to me “You will be a healer for all you have experienced will make you compassionate, and when you are grateful for these experiences, you will know you are healed from the trauma of them.”  I didn’t want to hear that, be GRATEFUL?!!!  Be grateful for the drunk driver?  Be grateful for the financial ruin my ex-husband left me??  Oh, yes, the icing on the cake, one of the last phrases my now ex-husband uttered was, “You are resourceful, you will be OK.”

In my heart I knew my neuropsychologist was correct.  And, I also recognized it was time to re-connect with my heart, feelings and intuition.  So what if my IQ is in the very high range, I needed to get out of my head and back into my heart!  Rough lesson, but the best lesson ever.  It is OK to feel, to be a feelings sieve and not a sponge.  Stop being afraid to feel – really feel the feelings, for they will pass.  Be open, communicate, and no more secrets for secrets feed shame.

This Albert Einstein quote is so true.  “The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over expecting different results.”  I wasn’t getting the results I wanted, why not do the opposite?

Now it is 10 years later.  I am so grateful, for I have been on a wondrous journey of self-discovery, self-nourishment, and enlightenment.  My connection with my artistic creativity has been restored and I am, with my daughter who is also an artist, designing and selling one of a kind sterling jewelry.  I am now even open to attracting a wonderful man who makes me like myself best when I am with him, and I am a better person because of knowing him.  (Also, I am so over cooking from scratch for one person.  HA!)

I love my life and the fork in the road so long ago; it has taken me on a path of greater knowledge to keep myself and my family healthy.  I have had the privilege to step into my power and create the future I desire.  And, as was predicted, I am truly a happy and grateful guru, I help motivate people to find their mental, spiritual and nutritional enlightenment!!!

Moral of the story:  Every event in your life gives you an opportunity to choose what you want or turn away from it.  Learn your lessons along the way, lest events get larger and more dramatic.

You know the old saying that we each are our own harshest critics? Well, it’s bullshit. At least in my house it is. It’s not that I’m especially easy on myself, but rather that the kids are constantly critiquing me. And they’re brutal.

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It starts first thing in the morning. I’ll be innocently showering when a midget body will barge into the bathroom, and upon seeing my figure in the shower, run out screaming, like I have scarred him or her for life. It’s not uncommon for the child, whoever it is, to fall into a fit of giggles and call for his siblings. “Lily! Evan! Ben! Mommy is naaaaakkked. Come see!!” If I’m really lucky, all three will stand outside of the shower pointing and laughing like I’m a zoo animal taking a dump. “Ewwwwww” they shriek as I rinse out the conditioner, thinking that in the future 3AM showers would be a far wiser idea.

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Once I get out of the shower, time permitting, I slather myself in lotion. Should I be lucky enough to have an audience, they will inevitably point to my thighs. “What’s that purple squiggle, Mommy?” A spider vein, I sigh. “That one, too?” Yes, that one too, honey. “Over here, too?” Yes, my darling, that’s what they’re called. Let’s move on.

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“OK.”

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“What’s this?”

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It’s a stretch mark. That’s a scar. That’s a vein. That’s cellulite. That’s hair. That’s a wrinkle. That’s a bruise. That’s… crap… what is that? Just let me get dressed alone, alright?

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Lily, my child who is convinced that gym shorts worn with tights underneath are some kind of fashion statement in the year 2012, frequently greets me with “is that what you’re wearing?” and an accompanying eye roll once I make my way downstairs. In all fairness, it’s a somewhat acceptable response for the days when I do, in fact, leave the house in the sweatshirt I slept in and slippers, but much less appreciated when I have actually put some effort into being presentable. Yes, Lily, I hiss. This is what I’m wearing. Thanks, my love.

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The patch of white hairs, the stubble on my legs, the heels in need of exfoliating… nothing goes unnoticed by my lovely children. At the end of the day, as I read the boys bedtime stories, Evan inevitably focuses on my face. “What’s that dot?” he will ask, pointing to the tiniest pore or a birthmark or a chicken pox scar. One by one, he counts them like he’s counting sheep, falling asleep to the comfort of my imperfections.

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Fortunately, my skin is thick and there are a few “Mommy, you’re pretty’s” thrown into the mix for good measure. And, who other than my kids is really examining my nose from half an inch away, anyway? On the plus side, their attention to detail is impeccable. It would just be nice if the attention wasn’t focused on me for a change.

Rebeccah is a life time South Carolinian who is literate, open minded and not married to a relative. She has a beautiful family who serves both as her inspiration for living and her reason for wanting to run away from home. She’s a Jill of all trades and master of one – taking your shit and making it better. Really. She has an affinity for the quirky people in life and wishes her Volvo station wagon was equipped with rocket launchers. You can find out what she’s up to at www.connellyconfusion.blogspot.com

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Things have been relatively calm around here on the parenting front, and when you write a “mommy blog”, your kids being boring leaves you often bereft of good material. So, instead of using my poor children as fodder for my hilarious witticisms, I have decided that I will use my own mistakes instead. Some of these have required a great deal of thought because A. they aren’t all recent and B. I am quite sure I lost 20 IQ points for each kid and C. I have consumed an inordinate amount of alcohol along the way, thereby making my recollection somewhat hazy.

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Let’s begin, shall we? Here are my top parenting fails…

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1. Where I Sling My Baby Daughter Around the Yard in the Circle of Doom

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It was the winter of 2002 and we were having a lovely afternoon at my in-laws house. Cecilia was a little over a year old and wanted to use the newly installed toddler swing in her grandparent’s back yard. My FIL had hung the swing from this gorgeous old oak tree and had used very long ropes to get the swing down to person height. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth we went. Suddenly, I had the bright idea to push the swing in a circular motion, kind of like a tire swing. The baby was strapped in and I didn’t push it super hard, so you can imagine my surprise when it fell over on its side and began swinging in a circle with my baby girl sort of dangling out of it and screaming in sheer terror. Of course my first (and albeit stupid reaction) was to begin screaming “Daddy, Daddy catch her, catch her!!!” and start chasing the swing/baby along its crazy circular path through the backyard. It never occurred to me to stop and catch her when she came around – that sensible response was the route my FIL and husband went, thank goodness. She was totally fine and in hindsight, the scene was hysterical – in the moment, not so much.

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2. The Time I Almost Fed My Son to a Quarter Horse

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About six years ago, we had gone to a friend’s house in the country. The house is not terribly child-proof, but we did what we could and then proceeded to stay up half the night socializing. Next morning I wake up to find that Will has vanished. We searched the house and the yard – nothing. Got in the truck in my pj’s and drove around – still nothing. I walked out into the front yard trying not to freak out and saw the slightest glint of sun off in the direction of the horse barn. Raced over and found Will standing between the two front legs of a rather sizable quarter horse aptly named Superman, who was nibbling on his hair. Barefooted, in pajamas and a diaper, Will was standing there with Supe, grinning ear to ear while I threw myself around the paddock in hysterics. In my zeal to keep everyone away from the pool, I apparently forgot to lock the front door.

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3. The Great Birthday Mud Bath of 2011

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More recently we had again gone to the country, and as all good rednecks do, invented a new kind of activity that involved an ancient plastic hydro slide, a souped up gas powered golf cart and a tow rope. Honestly, it went well at first – the kids had a blast, the grownups enjoyed watching them and everything was cool. Things went south when my husband and the driver of said golf cart thought it would be funny to drive the two girls through what they allegedly thought was a shallow puddle. In case there is one or two of you who cannot see the writing on the wall here, I’ll break it down. First, the puddle was practically a lake. Second, said plastic slide weighs a ton, so it basically submarined to the bottom when it hit the puddle. Third, apparently little girls do not appreciate it when a tidal wave of muddy water pours down over them whilst being pulled around behind a golf cart around a tree farm in rural Bamberg County. Oh, and did I mention it was one of their birthdays? EPIC fail.

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There are the usual fails that we all experience, of course. You know, the ones where kids get in trouble for being bad and then spike a 104 degree fever five seconds later, not putting on enough sunscreen while at the pool, or playing a well intended joke that actually scares the crap out of them, etc., but the stories above are some of my personal high points in the fail department.

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What’s awesome about these and other experiences is that they help me remember that even when something seems like a catastrophe in the moment, very often these are the memories that we can all look back on and laugh. All I have to say is “This is the WORST birthday EVER!” and my kids fall out in convulsions of hilarity. The truth is that we all screw up sometime, and I honestly believe that being able to laugh at yourself is the only salvation from the complete insanity of parenting. I look forward to more moments that will leave me sputtering in fury, indignity or humiliation and laughing out loud mere seconds later, because it makes it all okay.