Sitting with my kiddos watching yet another episode of “Say Yes to the Dress” (I swear- there is some kind of drug subliminally laced into shows on TLC- I can’t take my eyes off of them!), and on the show, an interracial couple is planning their beautiful wedding. My very insightful and charismatic 7-year-old pipes up, “Mom, before Martin Luther King was born, this wouldn’t be allowed. Good thing he had his birthday yesterday!” I beamed with pride at my intelligent and tolerant child. How insane it is to me, that less than 45 years ago, it was illegal for a black person and a white person to be married. Even more insane to me, is that in 2012, in California of all places, that gay marriage is not recognized. How is that possible?

Although you would never know it from my very liberal, bartender, belly-dancing, hedonistic, sinful, pleasure-seeking persona, I was raised as a very strict and Southern Baptist, roll-around-in-the-aisle “Hallelujah”-singing choir girl. I was the goodiest of goody-two-shoes. The bouncy song lyrics,  “Don’t drink, don’t Smoke, what do you do…. you don’t drink don’t smoke, what do you do,” by Adam Ant, rings through my mind as I think of myself before the age of 16- that song must have been written for me.  But then, I became a heathen- destined to eternal life in burning hell, because I let my boyfriend get to “third base” in the parking lot of my high school, after the Junior prom. That night, as I gingerly hung up my teal green satin and sequin mermaid gown with the ginormous bow at the hip, and matching bolero jacket with puffed sleeves, and brushed the Aqua Net out of my 4-inch-high, ratted bangs, I sobbed myself to sleep. I had sinned by making-out with my boyfriend, and I was convinced that I would be struck by lightning by God himself, before I woke to see the light of day the next morning.

Since those very sheltered, narrow-minded days, I have gone to college in San Francisco, lived in Los Angeles, had gay friends, bisexual friends, transgender friends, been divorced, been remarried, and have committed quite a plethera of “sins” over the past two decades. Thankfully, my family has grown with me, loved me, respected me, and accepted me, regardless of the different paths in life that I have chosen. Isn’t that what we all deserve? Does God create anyone just to live their lives waiting for the proverbial lightning bolt to strike them? Absolutely not, I say.

In the words of MLK himself, “Nothing in all the world is more dangerous than sincere ignorance and conscientious stupidity.” I  couldn’t agree more. It is hatred, ignorance and stupidity that keeps us from allowing every single human being enjoy and exercise the rights that we as all human beings deserve. Who are we to say that a little boy that was born with the mind and the identity of a little girl, doesn’t deserve to join the Girl Scouts? Who are we to say that two people don’t have the right to experience marriage because they are of the same sex, yet  there are many “traditional” male/female couples that  defile and disgrace the vows of their marriages (including many appointed leaders and politicians) all the live-long day? Every time that I hear of someone judging another person, or their lifestyle choices, another very important and relevant quote comes to mind- this one’s by the Big J.C. himself, “Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.” Enjoy finding your stones and your sins- I prefer to live life, and to love those living in it, and around it. Afterall, that is what the Bible told me so.

“But you always seem so happy and confident… you seem so together”, is the typical response that I get from someone when I confide in them that I have a long history of suffering from anxiety and panic disorder. There- the cat’s out of the bag. Even though it started back in my early 20′s (only a smidge more than a few years ago), with panic attacks and shortness of breath, I didn’t feel like I was on my way to becoming the mayor of Crazytown until about ten weeks after my first baby was born. Accompanying the usual roller coaster of postpartum hormones and emotions, I was steamrolled by grief over the death of my grandma, who held onto life by a string, just so she could meet her first great-grandbaby. She passed away when my daughter was only eight weeks old, and that is about when my world was started to turn askew.

I realize now that I was suffering from postpartum depression, but at the time, I was convinced that I would never be “normal” again. I would wake in the middle of the night in frozen terror, convinced that someone was conspiring to take my baby (who slept in a bassinet right next to my bed) or break into our home. I would get out of bed three and four times a night to make sure that the doors and windows were locked, in addition to the usual every-three-hour feedings that my daughter demanded. The combination resulted in my sleeping only a couple of hours nightly, for months at a time. I was so frayed and frazzled, like a rubber band that has been pulled so tightly, you can nearly predict the moment that it is going to snap.

At the end of a postpartum follow-up appointment, my wonderful and very attentive doctor must have noticed that my eyes were more hollow than usual, my under-eye circles a little darker, and my disposition more sallow. As we were saying good-bye, she gently put her hand on my shoulder, and asked me, “are you doing alright? I mean really doing okay?” I could feel the surging crack start to splinter the delicate “Supermom” veneer that I had so successfully hidden behind, and out of that crack, my tears and emotions poured. I told her about my grandma, and my fear, and how little I was sleeping, and I sobbed huge crocodile tears when I was describing my middle-of-the-night panic episodes where I thought that people were going to hurt me or my child. I thought for sure that she was going to order a straight-jacket for me right then and there, and held my breath as I waited to see how she would respond to my admissions. I will never forget the way she so reassuringly and softly said, “none of this is your fault, you are a wonderful mother, and you will not go crazy.” I so badly wanted to believe her. She sent me home with several different resources to learn about depression and anxiety, yoga, meditation and medication. After a week or so of trying the holistic remedies, I did my research on different medications for depression and anxiety, and decided that it was a route that I had to try.

Seven years later, I have been off and on, mixed and matched, increased and decreased on all different arrays and cocktails of medications for anxiety and depression. In hindsight, I wish that I had given the yoga and meditation more effort, but I truly think that I was so depleted and desperate at the time, that I needed the most aggressive form of treatment, that would work in the shortest amount of time. Within weeks of taking my first dose of Zoloft, I began to realize that I was sleeping better (or as good as one can with an infant), I was not as sensitive and fearful, and I was starting to feel a little more like myself.

What I didn’t realize, and what has taken me years to realize, is that I was becoming “flat”. The flame that sparked my fire, that lent me my creative edge, and fueled my entrepreneurial spirit, was slowly beginning to extinguish. It’s time to take off the cast, and see what I can do to heal those past wounds. Now is the time for me to learn other methods of coping with my anxiety, and I intend to keep trying until something works. It has been six days since I weaned myself off of Buproprion, and there have been several days where I have experienced some disconcerting side effects, like dizziness, nausea and headaches. But, I am determined to find a better way to live. I am not against psychological medications, and agree that people really do have chemical imbalances which  cause them to have to rely on these medications to live their lives. But for myself, personally, there must be a better answer. I want to unlock my potential, unleash my creativity, drop-kick my fear and anxiety, and find out what’s really under all of my layers. I will keep you posted on how this process plays out and the different skills and tactics that I pick up along the way that help get me to my goal of being more healthy on the inside. Don’t expect me to walk around chanting like a Buddhist monk, while contorting myself into poses likely seen on stage at Cirque Du Soleil, but  do look forward (a.k.a. you’ve been warned), to me getting a little bit of my spark back.

Celebs and normal, everyday folk alike, are jumping on board of a trend that fascinates me- vow renewal parties. Heidi Klum and Seal have reportedly renewed their vows and put on a huge wedding-like shindig on their anniversary every year of their five-year marriage. Overkill or simply keeping the romance alive?

Having been married over eight years myself, I have definitely witnessed first hand the “for better or for worse” that manages to weave through the delicate fabric that is marriage. Every year for our anniversary, the Husband and I celebrate another year of wedded bliss by going away, at least overnight, sometimes for the weekend, and we park the kiddos gratefully, at Grandma’s. But, in keeping with the new Vow renewal trend, it seems that our annual jaunt to San Francisco pales in comparison to what some couples have planned for their vow renewal parties.

Is a vow renewal just another reason to be the center of attention and throw a big huge party, or is it a reward for having spent every day of your waking life next to a person who chews his ice so loud while watching t.v. that you wonder how it is that he has any teeth at all, for the past eight years? I’m all for throwing a party, buuuuuuuuhhh-lieve me on that one, but should you get to have a complete wedding do-over after only one, two, or five years of marriage?

My jaw was on the sidewalk as I listened to (okay, eavesdropped on) a mom at the park telling her friend all about her upcoming vow renewal party with her husband of six years- “It’s at the Biltmore in Santa Barbara, and we have 140 guests, and I’m having my second dress fitting at Nordie’s next Wednesday, and ‘my girls’ are flying down next weekend for a champagne brunch and bridal shower, then to have their final dress fittings…” wait a minute, I thought, you’ve been married for six years, you’re your having an enormously elaborate party, complete with seven bridesmaids??? Are you kidding me right now? I was even more intrigued, and tuned-in with my canine-worthy, bartender and mother hearing capabilities and listened closer, “We’re having the bachelorette party in Vail, and since there aren’t any strip clubs actually in Vail, we are flying these guys in from Chippendale’s to give us a private show….” SHUT the front door- you get to have a bachelorette party for a vow renewal? Really? I continued to eavesdrop, “we are having Spago cater the shower and the party, even though it’s going to be about $290 per person, it’s totally worth it- I mean, we have been married for SIX whole years!” Try eight on for size, girlfriend, I wanted to say, but instead continued my spy mission, “….and then my husband suggested Restoration Hardware, which I didn’t even know had a bridal registry, but they do, so we registered there and Williams Sonoma too…” Before I could grab them back, the words just came bubbling up and out of my mouth, “Are you kidding me right now? You have two gift registries for a frickin’ vow renewal? Who DOES that???” I said aloud. Whoopsies. The mom looked at me in utter shock and surprise, and there was nothing I could say, but yell accross the playground, “Alright kids, who wants to go get Dairy Queen?” As my kids came running to follow me like a moth to a flame, I quickly turned and briskly walked to my car.

That night, after three glasses of Chardonnay, and a couple, or nine, episodes of “Say Yes to the Dress”, I was still thinking about the mom at the park and her lavish, insane vow renewal wedding/party/overt display of wealth and/or debt up to her eyebrows, and I was definitely becoming more of a Bitter Betty with each sip. Tipsily, I called out to the Husband, who was in the garage tinkering on his latest remote control obsession, “Come in here for a minute, I wanna ask you something…” I yelled through two walls from the corner of the couch, where I had been watching bride after bride parade around in all of their lacy white and beaded splendor for two and a half hours. “You’re still watching that?” he says as he points to the television. Without answering, I blurt out “I wanna vow renewal, I mean a party for our wedding, you know, for our vows, a party with a pretty dress and crown and girls and champagne and stuff!” I slur, as he looks at me with an expression more blank than a sheet of copier paper. “You know, for our voooooowwwws!” Nothing. I continued, “I mean,like a wedding, but another one, a newer one, for the vows?” I was hazily trying to plead my case. With no response, and like he was backing away from a rattlesnake that he encountered on a hiking trail, he slowly backed away from the couch where I was sitting, then turned back toward me, right before he stepped back into his safe man-cave haven that is the garage, and calmly stated very matter-of-factly, “we already had a wedding- we’re still married, silly!” And with that my hopes and visions of a vow renewal party were dashed upon the jagged boulders of reality.

Though I’ve shelved the idea of a vow renewal party in lieu of a trip to Italy for our 10 year anniversary, though more likely, it will be closer to our 15th anniversary that we’re able to take on such an expense. But, in all honesty, there is still a small part of me that is wondering if vows really are like the brakes on your car, where it’s unsafe to operate your vehicle without having them changed at a certain point, and if you don’t, it can lead to drastic consequences, or is it simply just another reason to throw a party?

On the Sunday after New Year’s Eve, I was abundantly blessed by having 45 minutes to myself to run to the mall without my two little shadows. I had a couple of things to exchange, and a few gift certificates that were burning a hole in my wallet, and a very limited window of time, so I was on a very strategic mission. I had to park waaaaaay out in the Timbuktu parking lot, since the mall was sardine-packed with post-holiday shoppers and returners. As I lock my car and begin my trek, I notice out of the corner of my eye that the car that I parked next to has two small kids in it, and no parent in sight.

I briefly thought about minding my own business, especially since my kid-free time treasure was very limited. But, what if something happened, and I didn’t step in? What if it was one of those “What Would You Do” shows on Dateline, and I’m on camera just walking away flanked by my Victoria’s Secret shopping bags, putting yet another pair of overpriced flannel pajamas ahead of what could be a potentially dangerous situation? I had to do something, but what? I decided to nonchalantly sit in my car, where I could see the kids, to see if someone was close by- maybe it was a dad, and he was wandering around nearby with a Bluetooth in his ear, oblivious to how long he’d been on the phone organizing his Fantasy Baseball picks while his kids sat in the car within sight. I waited for ten minutes, no dad. Could it be a babysitter or older sister, who was two cars over making out with her much older and prohibited boyfriend while she was supposed to be “watching” the kids? I waited 15 more minutes- no babysitter or big sister.

This is how far from the store I was parked!

Several times, I thought to myself, “Am I overreacting?” Even though I don’t even leave my kids in the car to run up to hand cash to the attendant at the gas station, am I being overly worrisome about these kids locked in a car in a mall parking lot for a half hour? I decided that I was not overreacting, the kids looked only to be seven and nine, or younger. I needed to do something. I decided to call the mall security office, to tell them the situation, and they can take over from there.

I sat for about ten more minutes waiting for the white truck with the flashing orange lights to pull up, still no parent or anyone to claim these two kids, who are now starting to get restless, and are climbing all over the inside of the car. I was starting to become very irritated and thinking that maybe I should have just kept to myself, when zooming down the aisle of the parking lot is a mall cop on his Segway, wearing a bright orange safety vest. In a very “Here I come to save the daaaaaaay!” fashion, he parked his scooter behind the car with the kids, staunchly dismounted, hiked up his pants, and walked up to the car window. “I need for you kids to unlock this car,” he demanded. The kids just stared at him, and the older boy shook his head no. “I am an officer of the law, and I need you to unlock this window NOW.” He said sternly, and I was hoping he couldn’t hear me snickering from the car next to them. The little boy complied, and unlocked the door for the “officer”, who then asked him how old they were. “Seven and nine? Well that’s a little young to be all by yourself out here,” he stated. “Where is your mommy or daddy?”, he asked the older child. The little one quipped up, “She’s at Macy’s!” And the mall cop got on his radio, and started barking orders to the other mall cops to track down the missing mother, who apparently thought that a locked Toyota Prius at the back of a parking lot was sufficient enough supervision for her kids while she was returning whatever her husband bought her for Christmas.

I could only imagine the scene inside of Macy’s, as they announced on the loudspeaker, “Will the owner of a blue 2010 Toyota Prius, parked in lot C40 with two little kids locked in it please come to Customer Service, and we will be glad to remove your head from your ass?!” It probably didn’t go exactly like that, but you get the idea. I wasn’t sure that I wanted to be present when the idiotic mother arrived, thinking that the mall cop could probably handle it from here. I did, however slip him my business card, and asked him to call my cell if he had any questions, or at least to update me on the situation. I never heard from the mall cop, and since I had run out of my own kid-free time, and it hadn’t occurred to me to just bring my kids, and lock them in my car in the parking lot while I was shopping, I had to head back home without finding out what transpired when the mom arrived.

I watched the news that night, to see if a mom was arrested for leaving her kids in a parked car while she was trying on 75% off Not Your Daughter’s Jeans skinny jeans in the Young Misses department. No news story. I’ve also been watching “Caught On Camera” to see if they air my heroic actions, they haven’t yet. I never did hear from my Segway Superhero, either. All I know at the end of the day, is that I did the right thing. I intervened in what I believe was a dangerous situation for those kids. If it were you, what would you have done? Would you wait for the mom to return, or would you have walked away to mind your own business? What age is too young to lock your kids in the car in a parking lot for 45 minutes? I can’t wait to hear your thoughts and opinions!

I am writing today in the form of a public service announcement: Do NOT volunteer to go on the bus for your Kindergartener’s pumpkin patch field trip. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. I wasn’t warned, and I came unprepared, willing, vulnerable, and offered my supervisory services at my own will. And here I am, two weeks later, still shaken by the whole experience, and have yet to lower my Prozac prescription to it’s normal level. This is my story:

Let’s rewind for a moment, and go back to the blissful, colorful days that were the beginning of my youngest child’s first year of school. Since cutting back on my work schedule, I had devoted myself to being a more “involved” parent, and I signed up for everything. :Sure, I’ll work in both kids classrooms! Yes to being the basket-putter-togetherer for the school auction! Yes to PTA meetings! Yes to volunteering to chaperone the Girl Scouts to the fire station” (they didn’t have to twist my arm too hard on that one)! I had become a yes-to-everything parent, and was gleefully excited when I volunteered to chaperone for my son’s first field trip, and ecstatic when I found out that I got to ride with him and the other Kindergarteners on the school bus. I had visions of sitting next to my little guy, my arm around him, in our matching “Cougar” t-shirts (I’m not making that up- that really is his school mascot, and we really do have matching t-shirts with the word emblazoned across the front of them), and singing the “the Wheels on the Bus Go Round and Round!” in chorus with all of the other little people and teachers on the way to the cheery, lovely pumpkin patch!

That couldn’t be further from what really happened. I walked into the classroom, bursting with pride and excitement, ready to mark this milestone in my son’s scholarly experience, and I’m handed a list of the children that I would be responsible for, for the remainder of the field trip. Now, every class has a few kids that a teacher would politely describe as “oh, Johnny, he’s a little bit of a handful….” as the child runs screaming at the top of their lungs like a banshee leaving behind a whirlwind of destruction. On my list, was my own kid, and every single one of these kids. With a sigh, I told myself- “you GOT this, Girl! You are supermom! You can handle this- no sweat!” And I wrangled all of my kids to the bus, got them on, got them buckled, and thought I had it all together, and off we went.

Two minutes into the bus ride, (there were over 70 Kindergarteners- the noise was deafening!), the little girls that I was sitting next to, start chanting at the top off their screechy little voices, “Fas-TER! Fas-TER!” to the bus driver, at the front of the bus. “After 13 girls started chanting in unison around me, and their high-pitched voices are bouncing off the walls of the metal bus and reverberating into my skull, I politely whispered in my most “nice teacher” voice to the little girl next to me, “Friend, we want the bus driver to be able to concentrate, so let’s not be too loud, okay? Thank you for being a good listener.” The little girl pushed up in her seat, so that she was nearly eye-level with me, and right in front of my face, while looking me square in the eye, she yelled, “FAS-TER!” as loud as her little voice could muster. This started a chain reaction of all of the kids in my whole back section of the bus shrieking in a louder, higher tone, “FAS-TER! FAS-TER!” Taken aback, I puzzled- maybe I’m out of the loop or overreacting, and I certainly don’t want to be the “mean mommy that came on the field trip”.  So, I suck it up, and practice some zen breathing for the remainder of the ride to the farm, while 16 little kids around me yell-chant for the driver to go “fas-TER!”

When we got there, as soon as we got off the bus, all five of my little boys were off and running in five different directions. Mind you, this is not a pumpkin patch at a field with nice little rows of pumpkins, this is at an actual farm, with farm animals, farm equipment, drainage ditches, irrigation ditches, a running creek, barbed-wire fences, and a corn maze. They might as well have called it the “pumpkin and every possible type of predicament that you read about happening to kids, like getting fingers chopped off by moving farm equipment or falling into a running creek or getting lost in a huge field of corn and starring in a terrifying Stephen King movie about bratty, undisciplined children patch”. Once I managed to corral all of my little boys again, we all sat together to hear a song about dirt, and learn about how to carry a pumpkin correctly, so that you don’t fall and trip and the stem of the pumpkin stabs you in the chest, piercing your aorta, or your friend’s (true safety demonstration performed by one of the workers at the farm).

Then it was time for all of the little ones to go off to find their pumpkins. As all of the other parents and their little charges traveled in perfect little groups to choose their perfect pumpkin, my five hellions scattered everywhere. One was hiding in a drainage ditch behind a barbed-wire fence, two ran into the corn maze, one ran toward the animals, and one ran off to find his mother, who was also there, but not chaperoning or on the bus (clearly, someone had forewarned her). After a complete rigmarole of getting my group together, choosing their pumpkins, and getting them back onto the bus, I had yelled for them so many times, that by this time my voice resembled Kate Winslet’s at the end of  ”Titanic”, when she’s trying to be rescued and she’s the only survivor on a door floating in the ocean, and croaking out the words “Come back, Come back”, but no actual voice is coming out because she’s so hoarse. That was me. Only in my case, no one was coming to my rescue.

I plopped onto the bus, after I strapped all of my little kids in their seats, and did a quick glance to make sure I was no where near the chanting little girls from the earlier trip. As the teacher reads “roll” to make sure that all of the kids are present, and not being trapped in a corn silo, or hiding in a well somewhere, I sit back in my seat, and I draw in a deep cleansing breath. Right as I start to exhale, I hear the two boys in the seat behind me start to pick at eachother. I crane myself over the back of my seat, pinching a nerve in my neck, and warn the boys to keep their hands to themselves, or they will be in trouble when we get back to school, and before I could finish the sentence, one of them looked at me with a sneer, and kicked the back of my seat, and he kicked it hard. Dumb move on his part, as I saw him grimace, and feel for his new bruise, and I said in my “nice-teacher voice”, “Oh, Friend, we’re not supposed to kick things, that’s not best behavior,” and turned back around in my seat, with a little smirk, thinking to myself, “Haha- that’s what he gets”. Next thing I know, the kicking kid starts wailing, “IIIIIIIII waaaaaaaaaaaaaaant my mooooommmmmmmmmmyyyyyyyyyyy!” “Waaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhh” “Mooooommmmmmmmyyyyyy!” As loud as he possibly can, right into the back of my head and into my ears and my brain. It wasn’t just crying, it was the piercing kind of whining that a kid that is throwing a tantrum does to cajole his parents into giving into what he wants, and they give in just for the sake of their own sanity. That doesn’t work in my house, but that’s a whole ‘nother Oprah. So for precisely 37 minutes, and 42 seconds, I was trapped in a moving metal tube, surrounded by seventy 6-year-olds, and a kid screeching in my ear and kicking the back of my seat. I can’t tell you the name of the bottle of wine that I single-handedly finished that night, or how many ibuprofen I took to quell the pounding in my head, but I can tell you that although I continue my servitude in the Kindergarten classroom, I will never again volunteer to be on the bus.