All The Damn Talking

I recently read the excellent book Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can't Stop Talking, and learned that I probably am an ambivert - which means I have both introvertish (is so a word) and extrovertish tendencies.

I think this tends to be situationally dependent, but it most definitely also is mood dependent...and sometimes unpredictable - even to myself.

True, there are times when I am among the loudest at the party...and other times when I'd rather skip it altogether, preferring the company of a dependably silent and non-demanding book.

As with most personality extremes, the best way to cope and/or succeed is to know thyself. In modern therapy vernacular, this also is called a "Sensory Diet" (which can be confusing because it has nothing to do with food). We implement a sensory diet to help our children learn self-regulation and channel their sensory cravings and defenses safely and "appropriately."

Instinctively, we all do this to a degree. Aren't you fulfilling your own personal sensory needs each time you use light dimmers, volume controls, a certain pillow type or coffee? Think about how you feel when you can't alter the level of light, sound, or caffeine you seek? I relate my daughter's sensory experience to that ... to the zillionth power.

Now, what happens when our sensory needs are in direct conflict? I suppose I sacrificed my right to control my own sensory environment when I had children, but still sometimes I just need some quiet, you know?

My daughter is largely nonverbal (or a new term I recently heard: non-speaking) but superbly communicative. This is a wonderful blessing...albeit an exhausting one. Let me tell you something about nonverbal. It has absolutely no correlation with quiet. Nada!

A Memo To Our New Puppy

Dear Puppy,

Blame it on the timing. 

A few weeks before we met you, after passing me our weary, 14-year-old dog on her leash, the vet handed me a paperback booklet with the title, A Final Act of Caring. No need to go into the details, but that pretty much translates into, “it’s time to make sure that all your doggy affairs are in order.”

The sepia tone is intended to
emulate an "in memoriam" effect
(and hopefully mask the amount of
excess fur on her Cowgirl Dora bed).

Not too long after that, late in the night, I hugged that dear, old dog to sleep for good. I know it sounds callous, but it was quick, painless (for her, at least) and I swear her eyes emitted gratitude. An inoperable bladder tumor is no fun, and she had been moping around looking – well – depressed. An ultrasound confirmed her bleak, unsustainable status. It wasn’t easy, but it was time.

The next morning we had to break the news to the kids, and hope that our gentle, prescient warnings and weeks of intentionally staged moments of bonding would help ease the shock (it didn't).

It should come as no surprise that page 23 of A Final Act of Caring wisely warns: “Although it may be tempting to quickly get another pet, this is generally not a good idea.”

So naturally, against all better judgment, we ignored that advice, and you bet we were the first ones in the door at our nearest Humane Society animal shelter THAT VERY SAME DAY!

Sometimes I Can't Sleep

Sometimes I can't sleep.

I can't even blame it on the kids this time. It's not that I'm not tired; I'm beyond exhausted. I haven't slept properly consecutively since around 2000, despite my habit of leaping into the bed like a gold-medal gymnast by 8 pm.

When I do sleep, nothing - and I mean NOTHING - can wake me. I have slept through tornado watches; mysterious fire alarm battery chirps (come on, it happen to everyone); and malfunctioning burglar alarms. It's disconcerting actually. Lest you think I'm well rested, bear in mind that this only occurs in spurts...and I'm convinced I need many more hours of sleep than the average person. (Please do remember that there's nothing "average" about my whac-a-mole life!)

But nights like this one are different. A few hours ago, I battled to keep my eyes open just to make it through the afternoon, and now they won't close.

Instead, the Doppler Radar inside my brain - unfettered by mundane activities like making lunches and shuttling carpools - blips and twirls. I fret that my sweet baby girl sprawled out in bed next to me is almost my size - practically a third adult in the bed (yes, my bed because at least I know she's safe). I wonder if her nightly visits will ever cease...and whether she'll ever sleep under any roof but my own.

I Lost Time

I logged out for a few minutes...and then it was June. I try to remember something remarkable that's happened since then, but really, I don't know where I've been or what I've been doing.

Have you ever seen Primal Fear? It seems like your garden-variety legal thriller circa 1996, but it sticks. Ed Norton steals the movie playing Aaron, a naive altar boy, accused of the violent murder of the Archbishop, who claims to have no memory of the incident since he "lost time." But while Aaron checked out, Roy - one of Aaron's multiple personalities - apparently took over his body. We see that Roy is a violent sociopath who proudly admits to the murder. (If you haven't seen it, it's an excellent film and one of the original gotchas...but that's not really the point of this post.)

Image courtesy of deviantART.

Like Aaron, I feel like I lost time. No, I can't claim any alter egos - criminal or otherwise. I just mean it seems like time passed and I'm not quite sure where it all went. (NOTE TO SELF: If I ever do take on another personality, it would be nice if she would handle the laundry and cooking.) 

It's like when you plan to play "just one game" of Candy Crush and suddenly it's midnight. Or you open up Pinterest. Or when you blink and your kid is a teenager...and you're in your forties. 

As we age, we realize that while time seemed to pass uber-slowly when we were young (especially during Calculus class), it zooms right by once you're older. All those little, old ladies who smugly told us to "enjoy it; it goes by so fast" when they saw us balancing screaming toddlers, strollers and diaper bags while double-fisting coffees - well, turns out they were right. (I still stand by my sleep-deprived, indignant glares, though.)

So, I lost time. I can't really account for it or explain it by citing anything remarkable that's happened.

Checklists slowly got checked. Or re-prioritized. Or forgotten.

No photos have been printed and put in albums; the laundry pile remains life-sized; the paper stacks have not shrunk.

The WHATIFs Grow Up

The whatifs  have a way of sneaking up on us, edging their way in through cracks in the veneer.

We ward them off with a smile on our face; with sleeping pills; with best-laid plans.

Some of us, vulnerable to anxiety's Machiavellian maneuvers, have learned to ignore the whatifs, or rather deny them. We stay busy to hide from them. We run. We play. Or we use exhaustion as a means of defense (they can't attack while we sleep).

Still, the whatifs  are patient - content to lie in wait, satisfied knowing they soon will have the chance to stretch their tentacles, regenerate and multiply.

A movie theater shooting. A marathon bombing. A child abused by a teacher. An autistic girl found face-down in a lake. A friend diagnosed with late-stage pancreatic cancer.

Each of these tears down our defenses and allows the whatifs to burrow in...stronger, scarier, realer.

Shel Silverstein/Where The Sidewalk Ends

The night before a school camping trip, my son asks, "Whatif  I sleepwalk into the cave and get eaten by a bear or lost forever?" What an outlandish whatif,  I think, instantly realizing that MY whatifs once were outlandish, too. Are they still?

It's much harder to combat whatifs when they've become so real.

The whatifs  no longer are about my own mortality or suffering. They dance around the people I love. Whatif  something endangers them? Or prevents me from protecting them? How can I shield my nonverbal daughter from a predatory world? Whatif  my son doesn't make it to the hospital in time when his shunt fails? Whatif  I abandon them, or rather, WHEN I abandon them in death? What will happen then?

Things Aren't Always What They Seem: A Lesson in Generalization

One afternoon, my boy nonchalantly relayed this story to me:

Child X is playing a game on his laptop, and Children A and B are oohing and aahing over his shoulder. My curious son joins in to watch, but Child X covers his screen and says:

"You can't watch me play. Go away."

OUCH! My bully radar soared to red alert; my fangs and talons were itching to strike. Yet, I tried to remain calm and rational. I took a breath, and reminded myself that things aren't always what they seem.

I probed a bit: What EXACTLY happened...How did that make you feel...What did your friends do/say...Why do you think he said that...Who the hell is this rotten kid anyway?

At this point, I started to get a bunch of I don't remembers followed by a Can I please just play my game now.

Between you and me, let's just agree that kids aren't so smart. How could they be? They're uneducated, totally inexperienced, and have underdeveloped, unseasoned brains with absolutely no context for their thoughts. Now, pair that fact with the idea that a number of children with autism - as well as some other neurological conditions and learning disorders - struggle with "generalization."

Generalization, as I've come to understand, is the ability to apply something you've learned across settings, circumstances and situations. A common example is: You teach a kid not to cross the street alone. Does the child understand that lesson applies to all streets or just THAT particular spot on THAT particular street? It's an extraordinarily different way of thinking.

You know what makes generalization even more challenging? Rules. Especially rules with exceptions or inexplicable, social expectations. So now, you tell him, go ahead and cross that street when the light changes. Or at the crosswalk. Or if you look both ways. Or if there's a guy wearing a yellow hat waving you over. OH MY GAH, it's so confusing!

With that mindset, a kid so easily could "disobey," get it wrong, or just meltdown at the thought of trying to keep up with all these street-crossing regulations.

How revealing it can be when children actually explain their unorthodox behavior - which, often, seems completely rational and logical in their own minds.

For example, it was driving me batty that my OCD-stricken son's hands always were wet. He was struggling with classic germ phobia, and was washing them A LOT. (I'm pretty sure patterns and rituals were involved, but he's stealthy about that.) Of course, I assumed he simply forgot to dry his dripping hands. When yelling didn't fix that, I then got him to agree that it was because he didn't think the towels were clean enough (I get that), so I fancied up his bathroom and mucked up the environment with disposable hand towels. He still dripped all over the place.

Finally, when the lights were low and the mood was right, he explained that, since our treatment plan involved restricting hand-washing, as well as limited discussing and reassuring him of cleanliness, he prefers to keep them wet because then he is sufficiently reassured that they are clean. Oooooooooh, of course.

Similarly, my friend over at Snagglebox (who just wrote a fantastic post about literal thinking) shared this anecdote:

My son tells me that he finds playing tag stressful because, "When you touch somebody else to make them 'it', technically the energy is bouncing back and forth between your bodies as you touch. So how do you know who is actually 'it' when you let go?"

Guess who probably avoids playing tag...and imagine how this would play out if he couldn't explain himself. 

Does your child also suffer from "perceived injustices" (a term I borrowed from my friend at Try Defying Gravity)? My son once spent a year snubbing a really, sweet kid (who had absolutely no idea he was being snubbed, mind you) for something quite innocent he said that my son found hurtful. He told me about it years later. And this is my verbal child!

My daughter is required to navigate the world without the ability to express herself or explain her behaviors.

We were having lunch at a particular friend's house last week for the first time in several years. My autistic daughter went all Taz on us - screaming, running around like a whirling dervish, and repeatedly asking for dessert. (I was reminded why we don't have lunch at friends' houses more often!)

However, using my parental telepathy, I finally figured out what was going on. Last time when we were at this home - maybe 3 years ago - she was served a particular cookie. Clearly, she wanted/expected that same cookie to be served again. Because - in her orderly brain that seems so chaotic to the rest of us - that's the pattern established in her memory. This house = delicious cookie dessert. That's the rule. Unfortunately, others probably just see an out-of-control kid.

Now, let's circle back to the brat bullying my son. You'll never believe what really happened. Miraculously, my little talk with my son paid off. He returned to school, and somehow "discussed" the situation with Child A and Child B. Together, they approached Child X, who apparently meant no ill will. He was simply following THE RULES.

What he said: "You can't watch me play. Go away."
What his mother had told him: "Don't let anyone you don't know use your computer or watch you work on it."

Child X (in another class) already knew Child A and Child B. He'd never formally met their other classmate - my son.

Oooooooooh, of course. See? Things aren't always what they seem.

Meditation For An Autism Mom

This is not my fault.

I am doing the best I can, which means acknowledging that it will never feel like enough. I am only human.

I am gaining patience, resilience, wisdom and strength. I don't see it; I don't necessarily feel it; but it's true. It just has to be true.

My home is a disaster - whether due to my Tasmanian devil child, diminishing time and money, or pure, unprecedented exhaustion (or a combination thereof). I must learn to care less.

I have lost sight of my identity, my friends, my professional drive, and my peace because I am laser-focused on my child's well-being and future readiness. Still, I can take baby steps for my own sanity. For example, today, maybe I'll shower.

I find myself saying and doing things I never imagined due to my child's absurd, unpredictable behavior, interests and needs. I want to cry on many occasions; but it always feels better to laugh.

I am overwhelmed by the seemingly infinite cures, therapies, medications, treatments and diets that I am told will help my child. Some will help; others won't. We'll unapologetically do what works best for us, when it works for us - holistically, logistically and practically.

Each year, I will continue to search for the perfect school scenario for my child; nothing will ever fit quite right. I will take it day by day, year by year.

I am my child's best advocate. I will trust my instincts. I will consult with professionals, doctors, teachers and psychologists; but mostly I have to learn to trust myself.

I will feel judged. Sometimes, I really am being judged, so I should grow a thicker skin. More important, however, I am judging myself, and I need to learn to be kinder to myself.

I Dropped Out Of Baby Gym. Twice.

The comfortably padded walls, blinding primary colors and off-putting, patchwork-clown puppet at HappyBabyGym had lured me in again. This time, I assured myself, I'd claim my rightful share of HappyBabyGym moments.

See, as a new mother, you’ve miraculously attained a baby; somehow managed to feed, clothe, burp, change it; and maybe gone outside for a stroll. Still, you’re tired, lonely and – let’s be honest – bored. Baby’s not exactly Dorothy Parker. You need to pack that intimidating diaper bag and escape the house. So, with my second baby in tow, I once again found myself at HappyBabyGym.

I was pleased that, four years later, the routine and songs remained exactly the same. I dutifully cajoled my daughter to clap, stomp and pop bubbles on cue, silently begging her to conform with me.

The Dreaded Checklist

The same moms chattered enthusiastically, although they had little in common aside from parenting a child of similar age. They didn't yet know that even that bond was weak, held together only by a checklist of milestones.

My son had been born with a condition that could result in physical and/or cognitive challenges. We were told it would not be possible until he was older to assess the severity, and we had to "wait and see." I can report now that he would, indeed, grow into his "best-case scenario" and his challenges are, relatively, mild. However, each week at  HappyBabyGym, we'd only know that he had missed yet another milestone on the list.

His delays were amplified, scrutinized and assessed competitively to a point that, at circle time, I'm pretty sure I exaggerated his mastery of the sippy cup and other weekly accomplishments. Sure, the mothers would be sympathetic, at times making a big deal of placing little Johnny next to my son to roll a ball together, but when numbers were exchanged, nobody asked for mine. After I strategically lunged for the only instrument my child could grasp during the baby band jam, we'd partner up with the group’s lone nanny and her charge.

No, I was not joyous and self-satisfied, like the moms on the brochure. Nor did my son giggle gleefully under the colorful parachute. He was the one screaming in terror. We often cried in unison as we drove home.

So when I returned years later with my daughter, I felt entitled to a picture-perfect HappyBabyGym experience. I deserved this.

Alas, just because she could perform their tricks did not mean she wanted to. Instead, like her older brother, she cried. Or ran in circles. Or sniffed the other kids’ hair. So we put our shoes back on, and I walked out of HappyBabyGym for good.

Soon after, we found solace, companionship and comfort among moms and children elsewhere: in waiting rooms and doctor’s offices, where she aced another checklist: the signs of autism.


This post is part of the Yeah Write Summer Writer's Series. I had my choice of three writing prompts and chose: "Describe a time you felt alone." I am proud to be part of this talented, supportive writing community.

Guest Post: My Family Just Doesn't Get It

Editor's Note: I've opted to keep my blog identity separate from my IRL self for several reasons (you can read about them here). Overall, I stand by that decision, even though anonymity is not easy...not to mention nearly painful when I have nothing to show for a day's work! Others in the special needs blogging world do not hide, and have found that everyone from their school district administrators to their mothers-in-law offer unsolicited feedback on their blog. It's cathartic, influential...and sometimes, they tell me, restrictive.

Here, a mother shares her disappointment in her family of origin's response to her daily autism reality. For her own, personal reasons, she is not ready to share her feelings with them (at least in this forum). So, I offered her - and other "out" bloggers - a quite, safe house, for when they have something to say that's too raw, too personal or too whatever for their own blogging space. She has a fantastic blog, but I cannot tell you about it here, because she has now joined my circle of trust.

I'm delighted to welcome my first guest blogger. If you are interested in guest posting (anonymously or in all your glory), please email me at whacamolelife@gmail.com...because I really could use the day off. 
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My Family Just Doesn't Get It

Since my husband had to work long hours all weekend anyway, I decided to take the boys on a five-hour journey across state lines to see my family. I'd like to go back to when I made that decision and talk myself out of it.

I know at the time, I was feeling a bit homesick and nostalgic. I missed summers as I knew them. I missed the big extended family gatherings. I missed being on acreage. I can officially say I am now cured for awhile.

I had told the family prior to the visit that the boys are autistic. That the little one has several severe food allergies. They said, "OK." They even seemed to understand a little. It seemed too good to be true. I should've known then that I was walking into a trap.

When we arrived, I got peppered with questions about the boys and autism. Almost everything I said was met with, "but most kids are like that." If I heard that phrase again, I was going to throttle someone. Thankfully as it became less and less apparent that "most kids are like that," they stopped saying it.

They may think I didn't notice the looks, but I did at meals. Yes, I let my younger child get up from the table before everyone else was done eating and go play. Yes, I made him a separate dinner. It was for our collective sanity in the situation. Just be thankful my older child not only tried what you cooked, but ate it all. Normally he'll take a plate full and then decide about five bites in that he in fact doesn't like it. This is only after he's sat and played with it long enough for the plate to get cold and icky.

Newsflash: kids get dirty when they play outside. No, I did not allow my children to play in the pond. There are snapping turtles in it, and the top was covered in algae due to the hot, dry weather. Yes, contrary to what you think, I was watching them ALL day. In the off chance I went to pee (heaven forbid), the cousin whose child they were playing with had an eye on them. Plain old dirt causes black feet too, and I find it funny that I had to wash them to let them in the house for a bath.

I got an eye-opening experience to what a gossip you are, dear aunt. I can only imagine what you will be saying about us since we left. I really don't care. I bent over backwards to try to make sure my boys conformed to your anal ways (even by their OCD standards). It was just too exhausting to stay with you. Next time, we'll either choose someone who remembers what it's like to have children (and central air), or we'll just get a room of our own at the nearest hotel. It will be best for all involved.

When someone didn't remember us, and you reminded them we're "the PA relatives," I am now almost relieved. I am over five glorious hours away from the gossip and drama that you all endure - living within about a 20-mile radius of each other. I am homesick for my family no longer, and I am thankful to my one aunt who was packing a flask and made me a gin with a splash of tonic at the family picnic to make my stay a little more bearable.

Mommy on the Run

I am super-excited to participate in my first Yeah Write. If you like my post, you are more than welcome to follow the "Yeah Write 55" button to the voting page, scroll down, and click on that little yellow star thingy below My Whac-A-Mole Life. Voting is now open closed. Wow - I got 6th place out of 50. Just wow! You also should check out the other Yeah Write entries. It's an honor to be among them.

My happy place is shamefully cliche, but perhaps simply because it's so universally divine. Resting peacefully on a comfy beach chair...white sand...waves crashing...breezy sunshine...Oprah-blessed book in one hand; fruity, umbrella-topped cocktail in the other. My family's with me, building sandcastles, riding the waves and playing backgammon.

The best part: we're contentedly "still." Not still in the physical sense, but more of a relaxing, peaceful stillness, where our minds are able to join our bodies on this vacation.

BRRRRRRING (that's the sound of a one-button, analog alarm clock - circa 1986 - jolting me awake)! This fantasy is as unrealistic as time travel. Or you reaching me on a land line. You see, I'm Mommy on the Run. And Mommy on the Run is never still.

In the scene above, mine's the family disturbing the peace. A child is throwing sand, or screaming in terror, or wandering haphazardly, knocking over your sunblock and water bottle without even realizing it. Someone is yelling. Someone is apologizing to a stranger. All adults are counting down the minutes until this "vacation" is over.

If my kids were toddlers, beach-goers would smile knowingly and say nostalgically, "enjoy it. They grow up so fast." However, these kids are long past the terrible/adorable twos, and (while they still are exceptionally cute), universal sentiment is more like, "I hope they're not staying on our floor."

Mommy on the Run doesn't care. She's more concerned with making sure nobody drowns, drinks from a moldy, half-buried Mountain Dew can, or swipes a shovel from your baby. She's got the reflexes, speed and alertness of an Olympic athlete (though sadly not the body to match). You see, long after most kids are Ferber-ized allowing their parents to sleep again, she's still more exhausted than you can possibly comprehend, but her kids keep growing bigger, stronger and faster. So she focuses every working neuron on real-time, all-the-time crisis prevention and management.

At gatherings, while others' children are able to play unsupervised in the basement, Mommy on the Run is the sole adult chasing ping-pong balls. She hears that drop-off parties are a great time to run errands. Not for her. She lingers, in strangers' homes, awkwardly offering to hand out forks because "drop-off" is not an option. At the pool, while most moms are gabbing and sunning with gal pals, Mommy on the Run is begrudgingly in the water or, if she's lucky, running up and down the poolside in a sarong shouting with great hope: "Great job keeping your bathing suit on!"

At a holiday lunch, Mommy on the Run is even more vigilant. Her "crazy eyes" are (probably) not medically induced, but a sign that she's scanning the environment for potential destruction, meltdowns and escapes. She genuinely might want to talk to you, but it's likely she'll disappear mid-sentence, having to save a family heirloom from crashing to the ground or a guest's modesty from her daughter's compulsion to have everything buttoned just so.

Mommy on the Run is prone to sudden, unexpected outbursts, ranging from random warnings to guests ("Hold on to that water cup!" "Guard your salad!") to leaping to her feet to block an exit. Inevitably, you'll think she's nuts when she screams across two rooms, "Don't even think about it!" (You see, she and her child simultaneously spotted someone nearby with an irresistibly, rip-offable bandage.) Another parent - probably the PTA president - will say with a slightly judgmental  tone: "It's okay. She hasn't even done anything wrong." Oh, but she will. She will.

On a Saturday afternoon "relaxing" at home, Mommy on the Run is always at the ready, playing autism whac-a-mole with expertise, but failing to complete one load of dishes (tellingly, this is another fantasy of hers). The minute-after-minute demands of her resident Tasmanian Devil are all-consuming ... and more important.

Mommy on the Run is a master of observation, mind-reading and focus - but only when it comes to her child. As an adult conversationalist or party guest, she sucks. She will not and can not be still.

Once upon a time, I was a skilled networker, able to discuss Wall Street Journal insights with Fortune 500 CEOs. These days, I'm Mommy on the Run, leaving you with no other choice - as you must have figured out based on my diminished number of party invitations - but to clear a path and guard your china.

***By the way, if this post seems scattered or disjointed, please be aware that I popped up 13 14 times while writing it to avert disaster. Actually, consider this a disclaimer for this entire blog site. Thank you in advance.

It's My Blog. I Can Cry If I Want To.

We recently switched security systems in our home, and the offer included camera monitoring technology. So we now can watch and record activity around our house in real-time.

This sounded like a terrific idea...until I realized what that meant: never-before-seen chaos captured on tape! Here's a small taste of what happens when we arrive home from school.

Forgive my amateur video editing. It's a security system camera...and I'm not exactly submitting this to Sundance. Enjoy!

PLAY THIS:

A Letter From My Insurance Provider

Dear Member # at Member Address,

We will not process your claim until you send us your Member # and Address.

We already have spent 10 days "processing" your claim, bothering your provider for codes, and then stamping this letter for delivery through the U.S. Postal Service (since we don't believe in email). But we're not quite ready to pay you yet.

In fact, we really hope you will not read this letter. Or perhaps you will, but you have so many other claims to interpret, appeal and decipher that we realize you probably won't get to this one for quite awhile. Either way, we anticipate that we will never, ever, ever reimburse you.

Have a nice day.

Sincerely,

Your Insurance Provider

It Could Always Be Worse

When you think things are bad, when you feel sour and blue,when you start to get mad…you should do what I do!

Just tell yourself, Duckie, you’re really quite lucky!
Some people are much more…
oh, ever so much more…
oh, muchly much-much more

unlucky than you!

 ---Dr. Seuss, Did I Ever Tell You How Lucky You Are?

As a follow-up to my recent "Why Me?" post, I must share this nugget from a favorite childhood book of mine. Of course, re-reading it to my son 20-odd years later in my own chaotic household would prove even more meaningful.

Based on a beloved Yiddish folktale, Margot Zemach's It Could Always Be Worse comes straight out of the "old country." It starts out with a very poor man lamenting about his oh-so-hard life, living in a crowded, one-room hut with a large, noisy family. He can't take it anymore, so he consults the village rabbi for advice on how to stop the insanity!

The esoteric rabbi has fabulous ideas. First, he advises him to bring all of his chickens into the house, as well. Oy Vey! The man is somewhat skeptical, but he complies. Turns out - don't be shocked - the chickens did not help matters at all. So, a few days later, the downtrodden man revisited his rabbi for more advice, only to be told by him - the wisest man in the village - that the family should also bring the goat inside to live with them. He sure does, and a few days later, the cycle is repeated and in comes the cow. 

Most households don't actually look like this,
but on many days, they might feel exactly like this.
We don't know what goes on behind closed doors! 

The man has come to the end of his rope, and begs the rabbi for help (mercy), once again. Finally, the sage spiritual leader advises the poor guy to release all of the animals back to their outdoor homes, leaving only the man and his human family in the small shack - right back where he started.

But guess what? That night, the grateful man slept more peacefully than ever. His home felt like the village mansion! Yes, boys and girls, he learned an oft-forgotten lesson:

It could always be worse.

Inevitably, some of you out there have it better than I, and some of you sadly not. However, no matter how full your plate or how heavy your heart, we have to remember to appreciate what we do have because it really could always be worse. 

If we don't believe that, I'm afraid, life has a way of proving it over and over again.

It’s a troublesome world. 

All the people who’re in it
are troubled with troubles almost every minute.
You ought to be thankful, a whole heaping lot,
for the places and people you’re lucky you’re not!

-- Dr. Seuss

Red-Light Makeover (as in traffic lights, not the other, much more exciting kind. You're barking up the wrong blog, buddy.)

I have - in various stages of my former life - read and even subscribed to glossy, girly-girl magazines including Glamour, Cosmopolitan, Allure, Vogue and Marie Claire (I'm still anonymous, right?). As you can imagine, I was well-versed in the art of looking my best self: the differences, nuances and proper usage of primer, toner, foundation, powder, concealer, moisturizer, bronzer and so on.

I've really never had the patience to apply all that on myself, but I rarely would leave the house without lipstick, mascara and at least a clear coat of polish on my nails. I mean, I had standards. Not so much anymore.

These days, if I have a moment to page through those types of magazines (usually in a therapist's waiting room), the following thoughts run through my head: 

• Do I still even have nail polish? Oh right, I have those globby, sticky bottles that have been under the sink for 3 years or so. And also that atrocity we put on my daughter - bubble gum pink with glitter, sparkles and maybe even confetti. I wonder...
• Great dress. If only I had the life for it.
• My hair could do that if I was brave enough to use my awesome flattening iron - but a trip to the emergency room would follow because without question one of my children would intentionally or unintentionally (depends which kid) scorch themselves. Oh well.

And finally:

• All of this takes too damn long. I need to write up my tried and tested makeup application process for real-life moms like me (bless your hearts). So here it is:

Red-Light Makeover for Whac-A-Mole Moms 

***DVD release TBA

SETUP AND SUPPLIES
IMPORTANT: Check that your shoes match BEFORE you leave home. Everything else can be done en route. Unfortunately, if you are still wearing slippers or your tights are navy and not black - you're on your own. (Fine - stop at Target on the way. Been there; done that.)

• All makeup supplies must remain in your car. Center consoles of minivans work perfectly. If a particular item is running low, fish around under the back seat to locate a replacement.
• Eyelash curlers, eyeliner and multiple layers of makeup...who are you kidding?
• Tweezers, however, are a necessity. Because, trust me, you will never see more strays than in your car's lighted visor mirror. If this doesn't bother you or all you see is perfection...you go, girl! However, since my haircuts and eyebrow waxing are on an emergency-basis only, some slight maintenance the other 6-12 months is advised.
• Multipurpose makeup sticks are your best friend. Find a brand you like, find a color you love (me - NARS the Multiple in Malibu) and don't look back. This one is worth the splurge.
• I love "smart shade" type foundations.You know, the ones that supposedly change color on your face. They barely do anything, but that means fewer, unacceptable makeup lines. If you're splattering foundation on while driving, you'll definitely want something with minimal attention required. Restock those baby wipes in the car to clean your hands off  - before and after application, please. I don't want your face cream on me when we shake hands, thank you very much.
• Summer can be tricky because sandals require well-groomed toes. Select closed-toe shoes to skip this step. Peep-toe shoes also work because you just need to polish 1 to 2 1/2 toenails on each foot; why waste time on the others? Nail polish pens rock the car makeover!

SAFETY RULES

• Do NOT do any of this while your car is actually in motion - no matter how late you are. Be smart. You will look a lot less pretty if you crash. It will be horrifying, stupid and really, really embarrassing. But feel free to take the long way - and definitely avoid highways (no traffic lights).
• Multitasking is great, but you still need to keep an eye on the light and other cars. Do not overdo it by texting, drinking hot coffee or talking to your boss while applying your makeup at stops. I mean, we all know it can be done, but it can't be good.
• Don't let your child see you do any of this or you will deeply regret it when they are learning to drive and follow your example (and call you on your bad behavior when you yell at them to stop).
• Disclaimer: I can't help much with your hair. I know I've left the house more than once without looking in the mirror. A supply of hair elastics in the car is critical! (True story - once I actually flat-ironed my hair in the car before a work event...using my minivan's handy, AC inverter. NO, NOT WHILE DRIVING, YOU NUT! Seriously, where would you even get such an idea?)

STEP-BY-STEP INSTRUCTIONS

• Prioritize. Where are you going and how much time do you have? How many lights are there? Is the parking lot at your destination private enough to finish the job? If you're meeting a client, don't let them see you applying mascara in the parking lot...it's just tacky. Au naturale is better.
• First light: Base. Start with the smart-shade foundation or a light powder - nothing clumpy. Important step for me because lack of sleep since 2001 has resulted in perma-splotchy skin and under-eye circles. Yuck.
• Next light: Lipstick. This one's important. Shade should be light enough that it won't stain and is easy to apply. I recently read about some new, clear lip-liners on the market. Brilliant. Must remember to grab one next time I'm at the pharmacy (always).
• Next light: Mascara. You know what to do - but you only get one try and one coat. That's all the time you have! (You might also have to tweeze now, if you're like me and noticed some annoying rebellious eyebrow hairs).
• Next light: Check your work including your teeth to be sure your lipstick didn't end up there. Remember to check hair for stray cereal flakes (in a crunch, that moisturizing cream that you bought a year ago but never brought in the house can double as hair gloss). 

And you're done. You look mah-velous. Or at least good enough for that IEP meeting.

What have YOU done on the road that you never before imagined you would? Looking forward to funny stories and more tips from my fellow red-light beauties. Please enter them below!