Dear Every Mother Everywhere: Stop Being an Asshole. You're Screwing Up Your Kids, Too.

Dear Every Mother Everywhere,

Stop being an asshole. You're screwing up your kids, too.

Mom who looks disdainfully at the other kids' lunches of prepackaged lunch meats and fruit snacks made of 100% high-fructose corn syrup while unpacking your child's organically grown quinoa and self-fertilized veggies, patting yourself on the back for choosing not to pollute your child's body........yeah, that's screwing your kid up.

Mom with the Lunchable thrown hastily in the lunch box because that's what your kid asked for "just like the other kids" and who the hell has time to make a sandwich these days?........yeah, that's screwing your kid up.

Mom who never lets her child out of her sight outside of the home, homeschools her children, and has parental controls that block everything from every screen device in her home? Screwing up your kid.

Mom who believes in free-range parenting so your kids will learn independence and self-reliance? Your kids are screwed too.

Every choice you make as a mother? I can give you 100 reasons why it's going to land your kid on a therapy couch one day. And if you made the opposite choice instead? I can give you a thousand reasons that would screw up your kid.

So stop being such an asshole and judging everyone else's shitty decisions. Yours are shitty, too. They're just shitty in a different way.

About 5 years ago, I made a conscious decision to stop being so judgmental of other people. This was not a goal that was easily undertaken. I grew up in a family that thrives on judgment. We judge each other. We judge other people. And then we talk about our judgments behind each others' backs. And sometimes to each others' faces. And then we all feel better about ourselves for at least not being like that person. And then we turn around and talk shit about the person we were just talking shit to.

About 5 years ago, I started to realize a few things. I realized that:
1. I was so judgmental of other people I pretty much hated everyone.
2. Everyone else's family seemed to do the same thing to each other and it just made everyone a complete asshole.
3. I didn't want to raise assholes.
4. I couldn't raise kids who weren't assholes if I kept being an asshole myself.
5. If I wanted to stop being an asshole, I needed to start understanding why people made the stupid choices they made.

I'd like to say that those realizations made me stop judging people and start loving everyone. They didn't. I still find myself sitting down with my kids at the cafeteria table when I visit them for school lunch and rolling my eyes at the lunch in front of the 8-year-old who has 50 lbs on me, a lunch that consists of a peanut-butter-and-jelly-and-more-jelly sandwich on bleached white bread with a giant bag of chips, a fruit roll-up, and two Ding Dongs, to be washed down with Kool-Aid. And before I can stop myself, I judge the mother who packed it.

But now I force myself to think about why. I remind myself that statistically, the majority of severely overweight children come from families with a lower socioeconomic status. And a limited grocery budget can stretch a lot farther to fill bellies with junk food than it can buying fresh vegetables and whole grains. I remind myself that children learn their eating habits from their parents, and that we live in a country fraught with unhappy people, and unhappy people often eat to fill an emotional void.

And most important, I remind myself of those mornings when I wake up late because I was up all night dealing with a tidal wave of vomit from the stomach flu of bubonic plague proportions that has swept through my household, go to the kitchen to pack a hasty lunch for the kid who stopped puking enough hours ago to return to school, only to find that the last remaining fruit in the house (where I have been trapped with the acidic stench of regurgitated Sprite for 5 days straight) is 4 strawberries that have sprouted a head of mold hair that would make Bruno Mars swoon with jealousy, and I used the last of the bread to make the toast that is even now revisiting daylight into a trashcan beside Kid 3's bed, so I throw a hunk of lunch meat in a baggie and call that cup of "Strawberry Cheesecake" yogurt that's going to expire tomorrow a fruit because it says "Strawberry" in the name, finishing up with a PopTart, because grains, and a plastic water bottle that will end up killing baby dolphins in a landfill somewhere because I forgot to run the dishwasher last night and all the reusable water bottles are crawling with the aforementioned plague. And on those mornings, as my kid walks out the door in an inside out shirt and mismatched socks with uncombed hair, I dare some other mother at the lunch table to judge me.

And then I turn down the judgment of other mother and mostly just sit there being jealous of that kid's Ding Dong. Because yum.

As I've gone through this journey of recognizing my own assholeness, I've become increasingly aware of how horrible we mothers actually are to each other. Even to our "friends." We constantly find ways to work into the conversation how much better our kids are than everyone else. Better adjusted. Smarter. More athletic. More popular. Because we are such stellar mothers by comparison. We are passive-aggressive total assholes to each other. We would all swear up and down we aren't like that. But the mom's who are protesting the loudest? Those are the ones who do it the most. Yeah, I'm talking about you.

And the moms who aren't there for the conversation? It's almost impossible to get through longer than 30 minutes talking with other mothers before someone starts in. How that one mom is screwing up her kid by not medicating his ADHD. How that other mom is screwing up her kid by medicating her ADHD. How that mom thinks her kid has ADHD but really he's just spoiled. That kid isn't in enough activities and that's going to make him too introverted to succeed in life. That kid is in too many activities and never has downtime, which is going to make her too competitive and unhappy as an adult. She made her kid mean and bossy. She made her kid pathologically shy. She made her kid too nerdy by pushing academics too hard. She made her kid stupid by letting him play videogames too much. She's too overprotective. Her kids run wild. She's giving her kid anxiety over grades. Over sports. Over popularity. Over looks. Over life.

Yes. She did. That mom did do that and that kid is going to have to work through that shit with a professional someday.

But guess what, lady......so is yours. Because the way you are doing the exact opposite of all that stuff you are judging them for? Just as bad.

And here's the thing. All that judging we are doing? It isn't really because we think we are such better parents than everyone else. It's because we are afraid we aren't.  Every mother I know is practically paralyzed by guilt at the thought that she isn't a 100% perfect mom 100% of the time. We are all terrified of failing our kids. And we are all terrified that the other mothers will figure out how we are screwing up our own kids. Every one of us. Whether the lunchbox contains coconut water extracted from the fruit of trees untouched by human hands atop a mountain visited only by Tibetan monks or a Red Bull.

So can we all just stop being assholes? I will be the first to admit, I am screwing my kids up on a daily basis. Right now, as I write this, I have a kid crying because she wants me to paint her nails and I told her I wanted to have some "me time" for 30 minutes first. And that 30 minutes has been more like 45. Her therapist is going to hear all about her selfish mother someday and how it gave her feelings of inadequacy and a desperation to be loved. But if I immediately set down the computer when she brought me the nail polish and ran to do her bidding (which I did yesterday, by the way)? Her therapist would hear how she has trouble getting along with people because they think she's too entitled, and that's her mother's fault for never teaching her to respect other people's needs.

There is a big movement right now where mothers are being encouraged to stop competing with each other, because there is no "wrong" way to mother as long as you love your children.

Screw that. Let's stop competing with each other because there is no RIGHT way to mother, no matter how much you love your children.

One thing I have learned in the last 5 years as I strived to understand the why of every what when I feel myself starting to judge someone is that every one of us is screwed up in our own way. All of us. No exceptions. All of our mothers (and other parental figures; dads are not exempt here in the least) screwed us up and we are just passing the legacy down to our own children. Along with the green eyes and weird butt dimple.

The important thing? That's a good thing. Because if no one was screwed up, no one would be the least bit interesting. Or exciting. Or fun.

So yes, you are screwing up your kids. And that is FABULOUS.

Now stop being an asshole and let the other mothers proceed with screwing up their own kids.

D Day (Diagnosis Day Anniversary, for the Layperson)

Today marks the 2-year anniversary of the day Keaton was diagnosed.

I’ve learned a lot in the last two years.

I’ve learned so little.

I’ve learned that my child holds a mind-blowing reserve of strength in his soul.

I’ve learned I’m not nearly as strong as I thought I was.

I’ve learned that no one, NO ONE, really gets it. Even the people who “get it,” don’t really get it. Unless you are living it everyday, there is no way to truly understand the hell that is this disease. Even Kevin doesn’t get what it’s like to the principal caregiver for a child with this disease. The constant stress and fear, knowing that one tiny lapse can have catastrophic consequences, is unknowable unless it is your reality.

I’ve learned that even I don’t really get it. The pain my child holds inside him is his alone. I can’t take it away, and I can’t understand it.

I’ve learned that helplessness before your child’s pain is the worst feeling a parent can experience.

I’ve learned that two years ago, when Kevin and I sat in a hospital room on the scariest day of our lives and made a pact that we absolutely would not cry in front of him, that we would go to the hall if we needed to cry (and we spent a lot of time rotating out to the hall), we were fools.

I’ve learned it’s okay to cry in front of Keaton. To cry with him. To cry for him when he is too exhausted to cry for himself.

But I’ve also learned it’s not the end of the world we thought we faced two years ago. It is a daily struggle, an hourly struggle, a constant struggle, but there is a rhythm to it if you listen for it. The idea of calculating an insulin dose that varies based on what he’s eating, what his blood sugar is before eating, what his activity level was before eating, and what it is likely to be after he eats was a terrifying concept 2 years ago. It seemed impossible to ever get it right. But over the last two years, I have developed instincts I never would have thought possible. I can read a low in my child’s body from across a crowded room and predict a high hours in advance. I’ve also learned that there is no such thing as getting it right. There is nothing predictable about this disease, and there is no way to really control it. So I’ve had to learn to accept that and not feel like a failure because of it.

I’ve had to learn not to let it consume me. A year ago I started forcing myself to have time for me, and the fear was nearly crippling when I left the house. But over time I realized that not only was the break refreshing for my spirit, it was also good for Keaton’s. Knowing I could release control makes the idea of his disease less scary for him. And it makes him feel more like a “normal kid.”

I’ve learned it is crucial to make him feel like a “normal” kid.

More than anything, I have learned that I have so much to learn. But unlike that afternoon two years ago, when I felt crushed by the devastation of what was happening in that hospital room at Cardinal Glennon, I am ready to accept that for what it is.

Because every day is a failure when you are dealing with this disease. But every day is also a success. I’ve learned to focus on the success.

We Know Why Diabetes Is Lame….Do You?

The past month has been a nightmare for our family, in a way that only a parent with Type 1 Diabetes can possibly understand. Since Keaton’s diagnosis, I have lived in a state of near-constant terror, unending worry, and utter exhaustion. But most people who read that will ask “Why? He’s on insulin, so his diabetes is under control now. He’s as good as cured.” What we have discovered is most people just don't understand how much Type 1 diabetes sucks.

This blog is an attempt to help everyone in Keaton’s and our life to understand exactly what we’re dealing with, why insulin is not a cure, what they can do to help, what doesn’t help, and why this seemingly easily treatable disease has taken over our lives.

What Type 1 Diabetes Isn’t

Like most people, until Keaton’s diagnosis I was completely ignorant about Type 1 Diabetes, despite having a step-sister living with the disease since her early teens. Like you, I thought as long as you checked your blood sugar, cut sweets out of your diet, and took your insulin on time each day, you were fine. I quietly passed judgment on the mom who let her diabetic daughter eat a ding-dong, analyzed the fitness and diet habits of kids with diabetes and blamed the parents. I was completely wrong.

Type 1 Diabetes Isn’t Type 2 Diabetes

Ninety percent of people with diabetes have Type 2. Which means ninety percent of the information most people have about diabetes is about Type 2. But Type 1 diabetes and Type 2 diabetes are completely different disease processes. For instance, most people with Type 2 diabetes do not require insulin and can manage their diabetes with diet, exercise, and sometimes oral medications. Type 1 patients must have injected insulin to survive. So forget everything you think you know about my child’s disease. It’s probably incorrect.

Type 1 Diabetes Isn’t Predictible or Preventable

Although there is a genetic factor to Type 1 Diabetes, most patients have no family history. Type 2 diabetes is highly familial, but a family history of Type 2 diabetes has no affect on your potential to get Type 1. Also, unlike Type 2 diabetes, there is nothing you can do to reduce your risk or prevent Type 1 diabetes. This disease is not caused by a sedentary life, poor eating habits, or obesity. We didn’t cause it. Keaton didn’t cause it. Period.

Type 1 Diabetes Isn’t the End of a Sweet Tooth

Of course, part of Keaton’s health plan includes a meal plan that is consistent with a nutritious lifestyle. But it is no different from what any other 7-year-old should eat. The only thing Keaton cannot have is regular soda or sugary drinks like KoolAide or regular lemonade. We have to watch his intake of concentrated sugar, such as candy and cake icing, but they are in no way forbidden.

Type 1 Diabetes Isn’t Cured by Insulin

If I hear one more time “at least he has something that he can take medicine for,” I will probably stab them with a syringe. Insulin does not cure diabetes. Keaton will have diabetes for the rest of his life, and unless a real cure is found, he will require injectable insulin forever. And Type 1 diabetes isn’t instantly controlled just because you give your child a few shots a day. The required doses change sometimes hourly, with different calculations based on what Keaton is eating, what time of day it is, what his activity was like beforehand, what activity is expected after, how he’s feeling, what his blood sugar is, what his blood sugar was an hour ago, and whether he had a spelling test that day. Which means he often doesn’t get the precise amount of insulin his body needs at that given point in time, and his blood sugars can bounce from too high to too low and back again, wreaking havoc on his body. I’m finding there is no such thing as “well-controlled” diabetes. It’s a myth.

Type 1 Diabetes Isn’t a Death Sentence

Even as recently as ten years ago, people with diabetes could expect a shortened life span. With careful and vigilant management, however, this is no longer the case. Nor does his diagnosis mean he will eventually go blind, lose a limb, or suffer organ failure. As long as we are careful to watch his blood sugars and always respond to them, he can live a very healthy life.


What Type 1 Diabetes Is

So if everything you thought you knew about diabetes is wrong, just what is going on with my kid? To understand that, you need to know what insulin is. Insulin is a hormone produced in the pancreas that allows your body to convert food into fuel. Without insulin, the body cannot use food for energy, and no matter how much you eat, you will starve to death. Which is exactly what happened to children with Type 1 diabetes before the 1920s when replacement insulin became available.

Type 1 Diabetes Is Lame

That’s a phrase we heard a lot from Keaton at the hospital, and we couldn’t agree more. In fact, it’s become our family motto. Diabetes is lame, and it affects Keaton emotionally as well as physically. This means he may act out from the stress from time to time—even when he seems to be coping fine. So please be patient with him. This isn’t something that he will “get used to” or “will become normal for him.” Kids with Type 1 diabetes can suffer depression and burnout years after diagnosis. Telling him he “should be used to it by now” is counterproductive.

Type 1 Diabetes Is an Autoimmune Disease

An unknown factor turned on a mutant gene in Keaton’s DNA. This caused the T-cells in Keaton’s immune system to get confused. And the bastards started attacking the Insulin-producing beta cells in the Islets of Langerhan in his pancreas. Which basically means they started killing the cells that make insulin. Over the course of the next year or so, his T-cells will effectively wipe out all of Keaton’s insulin-producing cells, and he will be utterly incapable of making his own insulin. Currently, his remaining beta cells are overworked and failing, so he needs replacement insulin to supplement the lack.

Type 1 Diabetes Is Unpredictable

There is no magic number of carbohydrates to eat or insulin to take to keep blood sugars in range. As I mentioned before, Keaton’s insulin needs change hourly based on a wide range of factors. Which means he can easily fall into dangerously low or high blood sugar ranges quickly and without much warning. This means anytime he is doing anything off his normal routine he has to check his blood sugar even more than normal. Highs and lows, even slight highs and lows, can also affect his behavior unpredictably. If he is lashing out, acting strangely complacent, combative, or “ditzy,” please make sure he gets his blood sugar checked!

Type 1 Diabetes Is Dangerous

Most people believe that as long as you “control” diabetes, it isn’t dangerous. This simply isn’t true. Even the most tightly controlled blood sugars can drop or spike suddenly into dangerous ranges. A very low blood sugar can cause brain damage, coma, or death. A very high blood sugar can cause an emergency situation called ketoacidosis, in which the liver basically dumps poison into the bloodstream. This can even happen with normal blood sugar when Keaton is sick. Ketoacidosis can cause organ failure, coma, and death. Keaton may never experience such extremes in blood sugar, or he could struggle with both situations regularly. So yes, diabetes is dangerous. That’s what makes it so scary.

Type 1 Diabetes Is Exhausting—For Everyone

At times when his insulin dose is being adjusted, which can be as frequently as once every few days or even every day at times, Keaton may need to have his blood sugar checked in the middle of the night, or even every two hours at night. Nights like that are exhausting for all of us. Type 1 diabetes is also emotionally exhausting.

This is our typical day: We wake up and take Keaton’s blood sugar. Then we make breakfast and calculate how many carbs he is likely to eat off his plate, calculate his insulin dose, cajole him to finish everything we gave him insulin for, then log his blood sugar, food intake, and dose. Then I make his lunch and calculate his lunch carbs, write him a note about what he has to eat from his lunchbox, calculate his lunch insulin dose, calculate his snack carbs and snack insulin dose, and write a note to the nurse detailing any changes in his dose calculations, his dose for lunch and snack, and any special circumstances she needs to know, like an overnight low or morning high. Then I send him to school and spend the day worrying about how he’s doing, reading books and websites about diabetes, researching camps and activities, calling the doctor about any weirdness in his blood sugar values….oh and trying not to ignore the other kids. When he gets home, we check his blood sugar again, calculate and give him insulin for an after school snack, and log his blood sugar and insulin dose. Then I open the email from the nurse about his daily nurse visits (there are usually 3-4), blood sugar readings at the time, correction doses of insulin given, and any other notes. I log all this in his logbook. Then I start thinking about dinner. While I cook, I try to figure out how much of each food he will eat so I can calculate his carbs, then set the table and set out his supplies. As everyone gathers for dinner, we check blood sugar again and calculate and give insulin. Then we once again push him to finish everything on his plate that he got insulin for. An hour and a half later it’s another blood sugar test, nighttime insulin, and a snack if his blood sugar is too low for bedtime. And with all this obsessing about Keaton’s eating habits, we often forget to eat ourselves. By 8:30, we are usually too tired to move.

Helping Out

We have been blessed by an outpouring of support from friends and family, but the fact is, as with any family crisis, some types of support are more helpful than others. Please don’t be insulted by the things I say don’t help; if it’s here, it isn’t because one person did it but because many did. They are natural reactions for most people (and would have been mine before all this). But instincts to help are often off.

What Helps

Calling sometimes to see how Keaton is doing, and how we are doing. We will all continue to struggle emotionally with this. It’s nice to know we aren’t struggling alone.

Asking if there is anything you can do. Even if I say no. It’s nice to know the offer is there.

Emailing me resources that you have heard are good. I can’t guarantee I will make them my personal homepage, but I like to have resources on hand.

Supporting us with fundraising efforts toward a cure, participation in Juvenile Diabetes events, or simply educating yourself more about Keatons’ disease.

The fact that you are reading this, and trying to better understand what Keaton is going through. That’s the most important thing you can do for our family.

What Doesn’t Help

Horror stories of other people you know who have diabetes.

Telling me about every person you meet who it turns out has diabetes. I know there are other people out there. I don’t need the medical details of your grocery store checker.

Miracle cures, bizarre alternative therapies, or medical advice of any kind, really. You are not pediatric endocrinologist or a diabetes educator. We are not holistic medicine kind of people. So I am not going to take your advice, no matter how authoritative your source. So for your sake and mine, don’t waste your breath. That may sound harsh, but you haven’t heard all the ridiculous, repetitive, or just plain wrong advice we have heard in the last month. No matter what you have heard, you do not know what is best for Keaton. Don’t get insulted if I have to tell you that.

Talking about “good” or “bad” numbers with Keaton. His blood sugar is high, normal, or low. Not good or bad. We don’t ever want him to feel like he is to blame for his body’s response to food, activity, or insulin.

Joking about diabetes with Keaton. He is very sensitive to the idea that people may laugh at him for having diabetes, having to check his blood sugar, or getting so many shots. Please make an effort to avoid making him ever feel you think anything about diabetes is funny. Eventually he may get to a place where he can try to find some humor in his horror, but we are not there yet.

Telling us how lucky we are that what he has is not fatal, is easily treatable, or will get better. No, he doesn’t have cancer or heart failure. But what he has is a dangerous, scary, painful, stressful, life-long disease. It doesn’t help us for you to minimize what he and our family are going through. And for heaven’s sake, it does not make me feel better to hear about someone else’s kid who is dying from something “worse” than diabetes. That would make me a rather sick individual, in fact.

Now What?
Now, we wait and see. Wait and see how his body responds to his insulin. Wait and see how he responds to what is happening in his body. Wait and see how other respond to his new struggles. And wait and see what new drugs and technologies will come out that will make his struggle easier...or just a memory. If you want more information, visit http://www.jdrf.org/, http://www.ada.org/, or http://www.childrenwithdiabetes.org/. Or just ask. We're quickly becoming diabetes experts.

Quit Fondling Me With Your Grubby Hands

Today at the store a rather unwashed stranger rubbed my pregnant belly. When I was 7 months pregnant with my second child, my brother-in-law’s aunt copped a feel on my butt at my sister’s wedding and announced I was having a boy based on how it felt (yeah, thanks, the three ultrasounds performed by medical professionals had already told me that). What is it about a pregnant body that makes people think it’s free for the fondling?

And it doesn’t stop when the baby is born. Last month my sister-in-law was at an airport with my 6-month old niece when an older lady, holding a baby herself, walked up and started touching my niece’s face. My sister-in-law discovered on the plane that the baby the woman was holding wasn’t even her own grandchild. It was just some random baby she had plucked out of his mother’s arms and started walking around with (why that mother allowed this is beyond me, but then again, I’ve never smacked anyone for rubbing my Buddah belly either).

American culture demands personal space. “Close talkers” are routinely avoided, physical contact among strangers or even casual acquaintances is considered rude and awkward, and even friends typically don’t touch each other beyond a hug hello or goodbye. Personally, I could snuggle with my children all day, and I fall asleep best when having my hair or back rubbed by my husband (a fact that caused some confusion early in my marriage when his intentions in such attentions were met with rather unexpected results…but that’s another blog altogether), but I don’t like to be touched by anyone besides my husband, my children, or children in my extended family. Yet by the time I deliver this baby in July, I will have spent 36 months of my adult life being caressed, prodded, and otherwise fondled by complete strangers.

Because all bets are off when a baby is involved—whether that baby is accessible or buried beneath layers of skin, fat, muscle, and amniotic fluid. So what does that say about us as Americans?

Are we so touch-deprived that we desperately seek the only outlet that seems acceptable—touching a baby who hasn’t learned that’s it isn’t socially acceptable and therefore won’t deck the intruder? Have we built up too many contact-free walls, set up our personal-space fences a little too wide around the perimeter? Maybe those baby rubbers and belly fondlers are really the key to fixing the disconnect that Americans feel toward each other, and if we all would just “get physical,” we would all respect each other a little more.

But I think those people are just socially inept and possibly a little bit crazy, and need to be taught boundaries. So don’t be surprised if you come up to rub my belly and I respond by grabbing your crotch.

Look at the....! Oh, Nevermind

Today I stood at the gas pump, filling the minivan with regular unleaded, planning what to make for dinner, when a yellow fire truck pulled into the parking lot. As it began to turn, I realized it was going to park on the other side of the very pump we were using. I couldn't believe it! A fire truck up close and personal! My heart leaped for joy, and I turned to announce to my carful of children that the fire truck was going to stop right next to us! I was already planning in my head the discussion about how even fire trucks need gas to run, how firefighters sometimes need to stop for a soda too. It was a glorious moment.

It wasn't until I had turned halfway around, huge goofy grin plastered on my face, and I caught the eye of the fireman driving the truck that I realized I didn't have any kids in my car with me. I was standing alone in a parking lot gawking rapturously at a fire truck. Which then did pull in right next to me, leaving me to stand there, humiliated, through half a tank of gas filling, as the firefighters filled their tank 2 feet away from the crazy lady who clearly was trying to hit on them moments before.

I realize I spend a lot of time with my children. At least one of them is with me 14 hours a day, and sometimes a bit in the night, too. They are with me in the morning, in the evening, at every meal, when I shower, when I go to the bathroom; one is hanging on me right now as I type this. That's life as a stay-at-home mom. So why is it that when I finally find myself alone for an hour, I can't stop being a mom? Why do I not rejoice in my temporary freedom? Is my life really defined by my children?

The answer, in a nutshell, is yes. Right now in my life, I don't have room to be anything but a mom. Despite the parenting magazine articles imploring me to "do something for you," despite my husband's generous efforts to give me time to myself, I have forgotten how to be Kelly. I only know how to be "Mom." If I get a few minutes to run to the store alone, I spend half the time there looking at things for my kids. When I go out once a month for a "Mom's Night Out" we spend the whole time talking about our kids. When someone gives me a gift card, I inevitably end up using it to buy something for those little creatures who have hijacked my life for the last 12 years and show no signs of returning it in the next 25. And I'm surprisingly okay with that.

The fact is, I've learned to like watching Phineas and Ferb. I enjoy rocking out the the Chipmunks soundtrack in the carpool pickup line. I'm no longer bothered when I discover I've been singing along to the Barney CD the entire drive to the doctor, and the kids are not even in the car. I've found that Clue Jr is fun even when you cheat so your child has the advantage. And given the choice, I would choose an evening at the movies seeing an animated 3D movie with them over dressing up and going to a nightclub. And I don't care what anyone says, Kraft Macaroni and Cheese is delicious.

I know someday I will get to have my brain back. I know someday I will be able to pee in private. But for now, I don't feel like I've lost anything, and I'd guess most of the moms I know feel the same way. Because I laugh more each day with my children than I ever did when single. I am more enlightened by the things that come out of my children's mouths than by anything I studied in college. And I feel more accomplished at the end of every day than I ever did when I worked full time.

If the consequence of all that is that I can't turn it off....that I'm in permanent mom-mode....I say it's worth it. And yes, I did watch Handy Manny while I wrote this....even after the kids left the room.