My Green-Eyed Monster.

It’s not easy being green.

I have recently come to the conclusion that Gabriel’s obsession with the toy in Phoebe’s hand is just human nature. It is not a character flaw, as I had feared. Or worse, an agenda on his part to torture and punish the poor girl. No, it is a dark emotion, which resides in all of us. And in his case, it is a part soon to be surgically removed by me, with or without anesthesia. Operation Envy Extraction.

Initially, I regarded his evil urges to yank and grab, every shred of plastic out of that child’s hands as a cruel gesture intended to inflict pain. But honestly, the boy is just jealous—insanely jealous. He wants what he wants. Don’t was all.

I don’t stem his greed with my actions. I am guilty of spending 99 cents on a Matchbox car to buy off compliance. I get a thrill feeling like a modern-day-Mommy-Warbucks each time I toss a dollar’s worth of treasure in the cart. It is a guilty pleasure and I am paying dearly for it.

I suppose my rage at his seemingly irrational want harkens back to my own childhood. Wanting in a land of disappointment really was “letting the terrorists win”. Divulging what you yearned for only served as fodder for manipulation and blackmail. Of course, I couldn’t help myself.

Being the eternal optimist, every year I dutifully folded back the pages of the Sears Christmas Wish Book and initialed the enticing product number with a perfect little “MB”. With each precision crease, I carefully sealed a futile hope that I would be transcended from this life by an object of desire.

One year I wished, hoped, and put my faith on the line by actually asking for a pair of Calvin Klein jeans. (Sears did not carry them.) It was all I wanted and I believed that my personal happiness and future would be secured by having that man’s name sewn on my ass.

On Christmas morning, I got one gift—a rather long, big, white cardboard from my nut-job of a biological mother. Santa suspiciously chose not to visit our house. I figured he was as scared of the owner as I was.

Upon inspection of the package, I thought, “Oh my god, they are so special, she didn’t want to fold them.” I opened the box and my dashed hopes were met with the freakish stare of two ceramic eyes. Eyes with excess of stage make-up and a sad little tear painted on the cheek.

I was cursed with a four-foot porcelain-headed harlequin clown. Okay, I guess, I could see how she confused denim with demon. The woman was delirious with joy from her evident generosity. And in that moment, solidified her reign as Queen of the Demented.

As any motivated teenager, who was fed on a steady diet of misguided encouragement, would do…I thrust my chin in the air and decided that I would just have to learn to love clowns. Such is the rationale formed in a sanity vacuum, where even light and sound made regular attempts to escape.

I spent six months of my life, in a manic tribute to clowns. I painted clowns. I drew clowns. I even formed them out of clay. To this day, there is a ceramic clown sculpture in my parent’s house from my sad clown period.

It is safe to say that the only thing worse than actually loving clowns, is faking it. And it is a pretty sick situation when you’ve exceeded clown-worship on the crazy-continuum. Thankfully, insincerity lacks endurance, and I abandoned my pursuit for more heartfelt endeavors. Like becoming an expert at shoplifting.

As I delve into the fruitless task of trying to reengineer a preschooler’s human nature, I have to wonder if there isn’t something to be gained from the clown affair. Desire makes us do crazy things. From people to Play-doh, our desires turn us into lust-thirsty lunatics. But it also inspires ambition, innovation, and in my case, hideous home décor.

Maybe wanting has its merits. Hell knows I want Gabriel to stop abusing his sister. I guess this is the point at which I need to enlist my imagination. I either need to want him to slap the girl or more creatively, I can try to sculpt a relationship that can endure this period of temptation and impulse.

We can put it right next to the clown doing a split, on the back of the toilet in the downstairs bathroom.

Easy As Pie!

Fresh Pumpkin Pie

And when I say “Fresh”, I don’t mean from the oven. I mean, from the goddamn gourd. It is hard to say what possessed me, but I took on the challenge of creating a scratch-masterpiece of pumpkin pastry for Gabriel.

On Saturday, we made our way through the hot, dusty, remote, landscape of the Pinery Pumpkin Patch to find the perfect specimen of a jack-o-lantern in the rough. We stalked them in their natural environment.

Gabriel took to kicking the poor, steamy squash in frustration, when he couldn’t successfully wrap his scrawny arms around them to carry them home. We tried to protect them, but what you may not know about pumpkins on a sunny hillside is that those suckers can roll! They roll quickly, and not in a straight and sensible line. No way—they bob and weave making it nearly impossible to predict their path. Every time his Stride Rite even grazed one of those orbs, it made a mad dash for the border. And Dave and I stumbled pathetically though the dry vines and rocky soil to rescue it before a premature death by smashing.

Turns out, there is a very good reason pumpkins are attached to vines.

After a tractor ride across the parched terrain, my suspicions were confirmed that farms are truly the ideal setting for horror films. Then we winded our way through the corn maze. At the half-way point, Gabriel wanted to leave which posed a small problem for the two parents paying no attention to the path. We were frantically snapping as many pictures as possible before the battery in our camera went dead.

Personally, I am not a fan of corn mazes. I don’t mind telling you, they freak me out. Think…Children of the Corn. That movie and my general anxiety disorder suck the fun out of vertical vegetation labyrinths, but thankfully this one wasn’t terribly tall, so I could see basic landmarks to get us out—dirt, hill, dust, tree, tractor.

Head for the tractor, kids!

We loaded up our wheelbarrow with pumpkins and squash and Indian corn, and headed for the minivan. As we filled the truck with the orange roly-polys, Gabriel asked, “Are we going to make pumpkin pie?” I said, “Well, we are going to make Jack-o-lanterns.” “Can we make pumpkin pie?” “Well, I guess we could make pumpkin pie.”

In the car, I thought of what a total idiot I was to agree to make pumpkin pie. I don’t particularly like pumpkin pie and the thought of making it from scratch seemed a bit like a vegan raising chickens for their eggs—a lot of effort and time for a food product that you won’t even eat.

But as we got closer to civilization, I romanticized about the endeavor. I reconsidered and began to embrace the challenge. Maybe I didn’t really like pumpkin pie because I had never had “fresh” pumpkin pie. Sure, it was all about the quality of the orange mush, which made a squash-custard dessert unappealing to me.

Yes, I would make one from scratch! I could do it. How hard could it be?

This morning we sawed open the pumpkin, I knew we would need all day to accomplish this dish. We had to start early if we were going to be eating pie after dinner. We opened the pumpkin’s belly and scraped out it’s guts. Gabriel looked at the bowl of innards and asked, “Is that pumpkin pie?” No, we have to cook it.

And then, I baked the enormous chunks of pumpkin flesh for an hour. When it came out of the oven, Gabriel looked at the hot, wilted wedges and asked, “Is that the pumpkin pie?” No, we have to puree the pumpkin and mix the pie filling.

After the pumpkin flesh cooled, I scraped it out again and put it the flesh in the food processor. I made the pumpkin puree, Gabriel looked at the goop and asked…well you know what he asked. No, it is just the pumpkin puree, I have to add spices to make the filling.

“Oh, spices. I only like Basil.” Well, sweetheart, there is no basil in pumpkin pie.

So, as I waited for the piecrust to thaw (no, I was not going to make that from scratch too—I do have a life), we carved pumpkins. Gabriel was thrilled to pull the gooey guts out of another ripe gourd. He drew a silly face on it with markers and I carved the thing for him. When I presented him with his custom Jack-o-lantern, he said, “Is that the pumpkin pie?” I kid you not! Dave and I were doubled over laughing.

“No, that is a Jack-o-lantern.”

I must admit, that was the final straw for me. The pursuit of the perfect fresh pumpkin pie was suddenly deserted (Please tell me you enjoyed that one as much as I did.). Mercilessly sent down the mountainside, along with its renegade brothers and sisters. This kid didn’t have a clue what he was asking me for. I could have handed him a mango, called it a pumpkin pie, and taken a nap.

They say you should always respect your children’s intelligence and realize that they are smarter than you think. You should never talk down to them or ridicule them for their innocence or perspectives. You should engage them, and discover with them, and share in their interests.

Perhaps, I have taken it too far. Perhaps, there is a distinct limit to the amount of authority on any subject, which a preschooler should be afforded. Perhaps, I need to ask more questions, before I scour the web and the Amish-community for the best fresh pumpkin pie recipe and spend the better half of my day trying to replicate it. Perhaps, the boy just wanted to know what a pumpkin pie actually was—in light of experiencing all of these big, bulbous squash, which suspiciously share the same name. Evidently, I mistook curiosity for knowledge and interest for passion.

The good news: The fresh pumpkin muffins are delicious. Gabriel loves them.

Can a handbag cure Rheumatoid?

Evidently, I am starting a combination therapy for treating what ails me—drugs and retail. It seems that along with a dozen different medicine bottles, I require a closet full of fresh and fabulous fashion to embark on my road to remission.

Am I am spending because I feel sorry for myself? Of course, I am.

And spending now seems to be the current best bet, because I might very well be cured from this treatment. And then what kind of self-pity would I have to motivate me to stalk the designer outlets? To break out my credit card in fits of wanton worry. To carry paper bags with labels like Prada and Coach instead of actual baggage labeled Pain and Crippled. For a moment, I felt like a diva instead of a disease.

I normally don’t splurge on myself. I can go nuts buying stuff for the kids and Dave, but I have some wicked reluctance for buying myself anything over $14.99 and if I do pull the trigger, it has got to be truly fabulous. And at that price, you can imagine how often I come home with a qualified winner.

Well, I am off the charts now. I have bought myself a snazzy, black, patent leather handbag and a pile of winter sweaters and cozy sweats. Anything I saw that caught my eye was taken off the rack, to the register, and tucked neatly into the back of my sporty minivan. I was woman possessed.

What I can’t figure out is where Sister Sin was during this raging shopping spree. Sister Sin is the Catholic nun, who lives in my head. She is a mental malfunction, who can calculate the sin/punishment ratio for every human activity at lightening speed. Sometimes I don’t even realize I am making a mortal transaction, and she flashes me a glimpse at the home in hell, which I am currently signing a lease on. I can always count on her to suck the joy out of anything mildly indulgent and absolutely destroy something of true guilty pleasure.

How was it that this accountant missed my most egregious purchases last night?

Could she possibly think I earned those rewards? Is it possible that even she, as an active part of this flawed human, is not looking forward to the nausea of the months ahead? Do you she needs a new habit as much as me? I can’t figure it. But I know things have to get pretty extreme for her to let me get away with greed, gluttony and vanity. She is not one for missing a single sin, much less three.

I didn’t miss her, but I feel a little unhinged. I don’t normally find myself without checks and balances. I don’t normally initiate any transactions without a clear picture of the fiery ring, which will be mine come judgment day. Sister Sin rarely misses an opportunity to illustrate my inevitable fate, in excruciating detail.

So, I look at my new handbag and have to suspend my disbelief. Could it be with her blessing that I have it? Is it a gift? A gift because even she didn’t see this whole RA-thing coming?

I think she believed, just like me, that we wholly determined our own destiny. Obviously, that is not true, without a moments notice, a life can change. It can become something different and alter in ways that could not have been predicted or controlled. When those moments arrive, it is with true grace that all of us step out of the way and let those affected experience life in a unique way—we allow them to interact with the world as a privileged guest instead of a host.

I think Sister Sin did something quite remarkable yesterday. She reserved judgment on someone, who has more on their plate than they can comfortably swallow.

And with that, I take the pills, which I was prescribed.

On an adorable note:

While telling my mom about the visit to the doctor's, she said, "I can't believe they ask you these questions nowaday. I don't know what I would have said. I let the girls watch tv all the time. There is so much pressure on you."

"I just felt it was my job to be there and love them."

How simple, beautiful and true.

And now, a word from our sponsor.

I took the kids to the Pediatrician a couple of days ago. Clearly, I can’t get enough of doctors and their opinions on living a “healthy” life.

We went through the routine questions; what do I feed them? How much milk do they drink? How much sleep do they get? Is baby on a bottle? No. Does the preschooler potty? No. (moan.), etc.

And then she asked how much television and videos they watch. I said, only a couple hours on Tues/Thurs morning when Gabriel is not at preschool. But other than that, we don’t watch tv in the afternoons or on weekends.

“Well, try to limit that to one hour on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”

EXCUSE ME? Did I just tell you that my children watch FOUR whole hours of television a week? And did you just tell me that was TOO much!?!

First of all, I am totally lying—they watch at least three hours on Tuesday and Thursday. That answer was my attempt at a correct and noble reply. And you are telling me that even this absurd and unrealistic ideal is more than you can approve.

Oh, my god. Have you EVER been home all day with your children? I mean, EVER!

Not only do they watch tv a couple mornings a week. I turn it on everyday at 4:30pm while I am making dinner. There is a very good reason why PBS restarts children’s programming at 4pm everyday. Every single at-home caregiver in the late afternoon is trying desperately to get a meal together. Not to mention, entertain their bored, hungry, tired, strung-out midgets. It is ridiculous to think that the tv would never be turned on in the course of a day. At least, I think it is ridiculous.

I am running a household, not a preschool. In fact, I pay a handsome sum every month for Gabriel to go to preschool and be properly educated. Sure, I do art projects and we read books. I sit on the floor and play with them. But I do not feel compelled to create a preschool in my home. My job is not to be a certified teacher or educator at a professional level. Our day is not scheduled with activity after activity and project upon project.

I am a mother. I have laundry to do, dishes to wash, groceries to buy, dinner to cook, naps to facilitate, beds to make, bathrooms to clean, floors to mop, plans to make, stupid-ass doctors to visit. It is implausible that I would be running a daycare center. I am running a home. A home that is loaded with things to do and toys to play with, a home with a backyard and a train set, a home with dolls, Legos, cars, trucks, paint, paper, crayons, and glitter, a home with everything a child needs to be happy and grow, including a television.

The one thing that my home does not come equipped with is another adult. So, when this tired, weary, adult has her head in the shower scrubbing it or cleaning up another disgusting hairball off the carpet, Elmo is diligently watching the kids. He is the closest thing I can get to a babysitter on a moment’s notice. And he sings, knows the alphabet, laughs, entertains and educated.

I had a “real” babysitter once, and I found her two blocks away wandering the streets looking for my cat. Gabriel was home ALONE, taking his nap. The cat incidentally, was also taking a nap, under my bed. Elmo has never left his post, I can rely on that furry, red monster in ways that I can’t with teenage humans.

Beyond the practical realities of a one-woman show raising two kids at home, there is the philosophical truth of the matter. My job here is not to create an idyllic environment where my kids are only exposed to the finest and healthiest that the world has to offer.

My job, as I see it, is to show my kids the world (the G-version), and teach them to make good choices. Television and media are a part of our culture, they are everywhere and they are not going anywhere. In my opinion, it is better to teach them to make good choices about what is worth watching. There are quality shows out there and there is absolute trash. You can’t avoid multi-media, but you can decide how to utilized it to your advantage. For example, I don’t leave my kids alone with Sponge Bob.

I also don't know where I would be today if it weren't for Schoolhouse Rock and Sesame Street. I am sorry but exaclty how am I supposed to compete with jingles that I can sing in my sleep 30 years later. It would be cruel to deny my son the universal experience of "The Ladybug Picnic" and "Cookie, Cookie, Cookie starts with C" without commercial interruption.

It is just like food. You can either keep your child from sugary cereal and processed foods entirely, or you can teach them to make good choices. There is a time and place for a huge chuck of chocolate cake and a delicious ice cream cone. What is life without a little sweetness?

It is all a matter of moderation, if you ask me. Everyone I know who had only GrapeNuts as a kid is a perfect candidate for Fruit Loop therapy, if they haven’t already run off with Count Chockula. I hear story after story of people who were denied sweets or lived without television as children, and they have no sense of proportion with them in their adult life.

Building healthy relationships is all a part of growing up, with people and with things. I am still working on building relationships with doctors. At the moment, they seem like something I could do without permanently. If anything is going to be cut from our programming, it will be them.

Getting my head in the game.

There is nothing more devastating than having your worst-case scenario come to fruition.

In my crazy mind, I sort of think that I have invented this whole Rheumatoid-thing to get attention or something nuts like that. If you are wondering how delusional I can be…brace yourself. I was raised on a steady diet of perverse responses to serious issues. And when a really big ugly seriously bad situation gets put on the table. I have half a mind to tell it to stop complaining and go back to bed just like I was told in my formative years.

Along with wholly dismissive and borderline abusive reactions to my human condition, I was also raised Catholic, so I not only doubted my own reality, I also felt tremendous guilt for actually having a reality which naturally paled in comparison to Jesus Christ. I think, I even believed I was a Judas for a time during puberty, for reasons beyond my comprehension at the tender age of 13.

This all leads back to my doctor’s appointment today.

I went to see my new rheumatologist. It was a long appointment and I wasn’t exactly prepared for the entire examination. I had to get all of my joints tested, which essentially means squeezed and pinched. I also had to have a tear test. This basically consists of having a pokey-paper stick inserted in your eye and hung delicately from your eyelid while you cry for five minutes.

I got queasy just from the thought of it and when the damn thing was in my eye, I felt faint. And for a brief moment, I thought that Phoebe might be behind this, but even she knows a whole five minutes of eyeball exploits falls deep into the dark gray area of human dignity in the Geneva Conventions.

The poor man actually thought I might be pregnant since I went ghostly white and swooned a bit. Nope. Not a baby causing this, just the freaking man with the eyeball poker.

After sending miserable pain jolts through my hands, feet and back, sticking instruments in my pupils to induce crying, and generally making me cold, which is a crime on a good day, I felt our first encounter was going badly. He then instructed me to get dressed for the hard news.

I return to my cozy sweater, and Doctor returns with a wad of prescription slips. I braced myself and he told me that I would begin with four prescriptions. Four! Yes, not one, not two, not three…but four! And here is the great part—they are all on different schedules. I have to take one with breakfast and one with dinner, one at night with no food, one in the morning with food, and the last dose is to be taken on Wednesday night without food, all six pills. This little baby has to be taken once a week only or you can end up in the hospital. These drugs are lethal, helpful, but potentially lethal. Of course, most drugs have that grave distinction, but you have to wonder about one that if taken daily will wipe you out.

And here is the topper to the regime—no more drinking. Truthfully, I don’t think the drinking will matter, as it seems I am going to be pretty damn sick for a while. Yeah, it sort of sucks, but only if you decide to recognize that you are really ill.

And when faced with the overwhelming medical response to my obviously make-believe disease, I decided, “No, thanks.” In order not to seem rude or dismissive of his extensive torture, I mean treatment, program, I asked him to explain what the goal of all of this. I needed to know why I would even entertain such a potentially life-altering plan of attack on my attention-seeking-stunt, as opposed to suffering through my current condition, which seemed to be improving rapidly (in my head).

Aside from being terrified, I am hard-wired to be goal oriented. I hoped to visualize the end result for all this prescribed misery. Morning sickness equals healthy baby. That is a trade-off that I can understand. I puke—I give birth. These things are seemingly unrelated, but in the context of pregnancy, it all evens out in the end.

So tell me…what the hell would be the point of all this poison? I can cope with the pain. I can roll with a few bad days. I didn’t see the point in making myself sick everyday, just to spare myself some aches and yawns. All my daily struggle had become a minor inconveniences as compared to hair loss, mouth sores, nausea, loss of appetite, blurred vision, ringing hears, vomiting, rash, chest palpitations, just to name a few.

The answer was crippling, actual bodily crippling. What!?! This was real? And the truth, made me take a deep breath and reconsider my options. I will be disabled, if I don’t confront this disease. I will lose my abilities, one tiny squeeze, pinch, flex, lift, knit and purl at a time. Eventually, I will be reduced to a person who would envy the woman sitting in that office and hoping she had created this whole scenario in order to get her husband to bring her coffee in bed.

I found my new and totally-all-consuming goal to be quite sobering—in more ways than one.

It seems that I didn’t concoct this disease and denial will not stem its progressive nature. I suppose it was a little arrogant to think that I was that creative or desperate for help with vacuuming. It was smug to think I could conjure up all the symptoms, and absolutely insane that I would call them up at the very times when I most wanted to be healthy. No, evidently my limitations go further than my body, I think my mind is suffering from a bit of swelling and degeneration as well.

I cried on the way home while I tried to absorb the shock of the impending drug therapy. While I want to tell my troubles to suck it up and go back to bed, I know that they are more determined than my imagination. When I got home and saw Gabriel and Phoebe, I knew that the goal was clear and sound.

(Not to be corny in terms of seeing the kids and having some inspiring revelation. But when you are in a doctor’s office full of the old and infirmed, it is surprisingly convincing to think, “I am not one of you, I feel great!” But a three-year-old will made you think twice about your perceived invincibility.)

I have to be honest though, my greatest motivator—fear. Not exactly the fear of the freak-show-like-knuckles and lumpy elbows, which in itself is motivating. No, it is a more violent outcome that I dread. I am afraid that Phoebe will take my eye for real, if I gamble with my health and risk losing my part in her future. My orbs have really taken a beating this year, I can’t stomach much more.

So, will I be prescribing to this hideous medical treatment? You better believe it.