With 15yrs invested in a high-paced corporate career, Julie’s life changed drastically after facing her alcoholism and being involved in a car accident. This recovering alcoholic Mom/Wife shares her journey with raw honesty in a humorous, shoot from the hip approach. Julie reminds us that we can find Serenity amidst the chaos of life. Read more at www.soberjulie.com.

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When I was 16 and pictured my life in my late 30’s I certainly wouldn’t have seen it as it is today.

I’m not saying I wish my life were different, but what 16 year old pictures the day-to-day fun of cleaning up after children, a husband and a naughty dog? Seriously, how many times can you find discarded juice boxes and moldy bowls under a couch before you go Mommy Dearest on their asses?

At 16 I hadn’t even had my first boyfriend let alone pictured what it’s like trying to sleep beside another human being every night. You people who speak dreamily about snuggling through the night live in a galaxy with unicorns and purple glitter in my eyes… but I digress.

The summer of my 16th year had me proudly driving my father’s Honda around town with my friends blaring my music as loud as that factory stereo could get. The shellacked wall of hair which was my bangs bumped against the roof of the car as I grooved along with the likes of Soul II Soul, Snap and Bobby Brown. Driving through McDonalds while smoking and Voguing like the divas we thought we were was an art we’d perfected well.

That summer was one of my favorites; I was ridiculously self-absorbed confident and just knew I would be successful in life. I would sit in my very fashionable hot pink and black bedroom at night looking through magazines nurturing visions of my future life living in the fast lane. My visions of my high-faulting career and that immaculate loft in the city are a far cry from our not so spotless 3 bedroom bungalow in suburbia today.

Oh I’d love to sit with my younger self and have a chat; just having a few hours to give myself a heads up would save me so much heartache and wasted time. Wouldn’t we all like to smack our younger selves’ up-side the head at various points? It would save loads of money in therapy…

“Listen Julie, don’t spaz when you realize your first love cheats on you with a friend…no it’s not the end of the world and it’s no excuse for you to go all stalker on him. Psycho-ex drive by’s aren’t cute.”

“Just because a guy physically pushes you in a bar it’s not cool to break his nose… funny but not cool.”

“High-waisted jeans won’t ever look good on you, no matter what your Mum says.”

“Go to your high-school graduation instead of going to the beach… it would be cool to have a photo in cap and gown.”

“Don’t ever taste tequila… it’s the devil and it lures you in and takes over your mind.”

“When you’re in your 20’s and dating men based upon their bank accounts, remember men over 50 could be your father…you will live to regret that.”

Ah, so many things to tell my younger self but the most important would have to include my husband and children.

“When you meet a really nice guy at 27 whose name starts with B and he asks you how many guys you’ve slept with…divide by 2.”

“Don’t show B your crazy party girl side early in your relationship…and don’t refuse to do dishes because every civilized human has a dishwasher.”

“On your wedding day don’t drink single malt scotch early in the morning followed by hours of champagne.”

“Pregnancy stretch mark cream is a farce”

“You’re going to hurt your 7 day baby, you’ll nip her little finger when you cut her nails…don’t scream like a banshee and frighten her half to death.”

“Burp pads with baby vomit on them go moldy when you ignore them for 5 days and buy more instead of doing laundry.”

“When you are pretending to be asleep as your toddler creeps into your room in the morning, don’t crack open an eye to see if she’s still there, she has the patience of a bloody lioness.”

“You’ll never find true personal fulfillment in your career….no matter how hard you work or how well you succeed, you’re a softie at heart.”

Thing is that I can’t actually imagine 16 year old Julie would take any of this in. I know I was obnoxious enough to nod politely while thinking how full of shit this lady is.

How the hell could I possibly describe the wonder of a child’s smile? The simple joy I can find in a moment with 23 hours and 59 minutes of purely frustrating, chaotic, stressful family life? It just wouldn’t be possible to tell my teenaged self the valleys that my alcoholism will bring to her life while convincing her that the future is bright.

No, it’s not possible to soften the blow of how skewed my vision of the future was, instead of visualizing this further, I’ll sit here in my yoga pants and grape-juice stained hoodie remembering the good times. Today, I am ignoring the scattered remains of craft-time, the disgusting handprints around the bathroom door-knob and the blaring sound of Justin Beiber wafting from upstairs and instead, I am enjoying a Mocktail and some heavenly chocolate.

Tonight, I am going get gussied up, struggle into a full body Spanx, throw on a smashing dress and dust off some sexy stilettos. I will enjoy an over-priced meal out with my husband and at some point there will be some 90’s music blaring while I groove along the highway. Because today I turn 39 and I’m embracing my life — celebrating it, in fact.

Because I’ve earned it.

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I love being a mom to boys. I am the Queen in my house, there is no boobs, no bras, no PMS, except mine, no periods, no paying for outlandish weddings, and no attitudes. Plus playing with trucks and trains and all that is so much more fun that tea parties and dolls. When you have a boy you only have to worry about ONE boy, when you have a girl you have to worry about ALL the boys.

Another bonus for me…. potty training falls on dad. I don’t have that kind of equipment, so I couldn’t tell you how to use it or wipe it or aim it. So I will change all the diapers in the world, but when it comes to anything bathroom and potty related it’s all dad.

That is, until…the cleaning!

I will tell you right here and now that I would rather stab myself in the eye repeatedly with a dull pencil than clean a bathroom “inhabited” by my 2 young boys.

I walked in there the other day, and there were so many things that struck me. First, the gobs of toothpaste in the sink. I could brush a thousand camels teeth with the amount of toothpaste that was in that sink. Second, the stench was atrocious. Uggghhh what IS that smell? Oh Lovely it looks like no one has flushed the toilet in 3 days! That has got to be the smell. So I flush.

As I am about to turn to go get the “toilet cleaning supplies” something catches my eye….what is that? It looks like….like Saturn’s Rings. Around my toilet, Saturn’s Rings. No, not around the inside of the bowl….the outside, on the floor.

I am immediately disgusted, eww really?

“THOMAS AND CHRISTOPHER? Get in here, NOW!”

“What is this?” I ask as I am pointing to the floor.

They both fighting for a spot to see.

Almost in unison “Pee” they say

“Pee? Do you not know how to pee in the potty? Did Daddy not teach you how to get it in the toilet?” I asked

“Yeah, but brother peed on the floor and I just peed on top of his” Thomas said.

“So that makes it better?” I asked my oldest

“But he did it first!” Thomas says

“Ok I get that, and I get that you are some sort of dog that you need to pee on top of his pee to top him, but no one could tell me? And it’s dry, when did this happen?” I said

“After you cleaned the bathroom last time” Christopher pipes up.

To top it off, literally, my oldest chimes in with “I didn’t exactly pee on top of his, he started on one side and didn’t have enough pee to make it around to the other, so I helped”

I don’t know weather to term them dogs fighting to mark their territory or the cat that craps in the litter box the minute you clean it.

And that is just my children, don’t even get me started on my husband.

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1. Denial — I need to go to Target. I have a child. We can do this. It won’t be like last time or the time before or the time before that one. We will go in for the toilet paper and the milk that we need and leave with the toilet paper and the milk. There will be no tears, from either one of us. This time will be different.
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2. Anger —  Why me? Why is this happening again? Why do I breed children who are completely unable to make it through a freaking store without completely melting down? This is bullshit. I can’t stand my fucking children.
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3. Bargaining —  How about if we stick to the Dollar Spot? You can pick out any toy from there! OK, TWO toys! A glow stick! And a plastic pail! Or, a pad of paper and some stickers! Or, a Cars pen and a foam sword! So cool! The Dollar Spot rocks! Candy? You want candy? OK, M&Ms it is! The breakfast of champions! Cookies? Sure! How about it?! I beg of you .. I’ll do anything … Just don’t melt down.
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4. Guilt. What have I done to end up with a child like this? Was it the formula I fed him? The pacifier he sucked for way too long? The co-sleeping? Late potty training? Why is he so toy-dependant? Does he not get enough affection? Enough love? What am I doing wrong???
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5. Depression —  I am the worst mother ever. Life sucks.
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6. Acceptance —  Alright, fine. Just pick out a goddamn toy from the toy aisle. You win, I lose. There goes my fun money for the week, kid. Here, take it. Take your new toy. Better? Happy? Good. That’s one of us.
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7. Regret — I should never have done that — what on earth was I thinking? Lesson learned. Again. Target and children simply do not belong together. Never again. This time, I mean it.

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Followed by: The Inevitable. Did I seriously forget the freaking toilet paper?
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This is an image shared by 257 friends of mine on Facebook.

I understand why people responded to it and why it has the number of likes that it does. Our stretch marks and lose skin and dimples may not have been there twenty years ago, but they are part of who we are now and, therefore, they are beautiful. We earned them.

We are Women, hear us Roar!

But, here’s the thing: I’m not roaring about my stretchmarks; I’m groaning.

Then there’s this movement that seems to pop up every few years of mothers baring their bellies to show what we — real women — look like. Yes, it’s absolutely refreshing to see what a normal belly is after years of being bombarded with washboard abs and Photoshopped perfection. Real bellies dimple and sag and dip and bulge. Real boobs do the same, and most of us have them. By recognizing this, we should all be more comfortable in our own skin. Well, that’s the point at least.

But, while everyone else is comforted and roaring, all I’m thinking is that I’m sure as hell not going to be caught dead on the internet without a shirt on. Good for those women. Their self-confidence and self-acceptance is inspiring. Good for their daughters, being raised by moms who are comfortable in their own skin… Good for their husbands who don’t need deal with the mishigas that most partners do. It’s a good thing… I’m just not there yet.

My body gave me my children and for that, I will be eternally grateful. It is a beautiful thing, indeed. But, the stretch marks? They’re not so pretty, no matter what exotic animal they’re compared to. The stomach? Sorry, but I would prefer it be be flatter. The veins? No, I don’t see little works of modern art in their formation. The sagging? The drooping? No, I can not say I love the effects that carrying and birthing three children has had on me. Does that make me anti-feminist, shallow and vain? Maybe, but it’s the truth: I liked my body better before I had kids.

Would I trade my motherly imperfections for the experience of motherhood? Of course not, not in a million years. But, I don’t consider them trophies, either. They’re more like necessary consequences that I’ve learned to accept, but never fully embrace. I would do it all over again in a heartbeat, but I’m not exactly proud of them, either.

Perhaps someday, I won’t slather coco butter on my skin, hoping for a miracle. Maybe I’ll even wear a skimpy swimsuit at a crowded public pool without the slightest hint of self consciousness. Maybe I’ll prance and roar and pound my chest with pride. But, more than likely, I won’t. I think I’ll always wish that I’d appreciated my pre-baby belly more and scowl at the cruel redistribution of weight. But, I do recognize that I’m more than a number on the scale or the ripples on my skin. I am woman. I guess I’m just not much of a roarer.

I do, however, really like to hiss.

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.