It’s been awhile since I’ve posted here, as I’ve been working on my book and other projects, but I’m planning to post more articles in the next few weeks- as my followers are asking for more Angst Mom.

Please take a moment to read Part 1 of this very important interview I did with Erin Runnion about keeping your child safe from sexual abuse.

On July 15, 2002, Samantha Runnion was the victim of a horrific crime by a convicted child molester. As she played with a friend outside her house in a suburban, gated, Southern- California community, she was kidnapped, driven seventy miles away, sexually assaulted, beaten upside the head and asphyxiated via pressure to the chest (in other words, he pressed on her chest until the breath was forced from her lungs and her heart stopped). Samantha would have turned six years old eleven days later.

The man who killed Samantha had been accused and tried for molesting two girls (one his girlfriend’s daughter and the other, her cousin). Statistics tell us there were likely countless other victims who never reported him. There was no reason that this man should have been acquitted, but what happened to Samantha was an extreme case of the miscarriage of justice that occurs when convicted sex offenders are not kept locked behind bars where they belong.

70% of all convicted sexual assault felons committed their crimes against children (over half of their victims were under the age of twelve), and when these men are released from prison, the rate of recidivism is exceptionally high. There is no known treatment or cure for sexual abusers- the only solution is keeping them in prison and away from children.

When Samantha was taken, her mother Erin Runnion educated herself about child abuse and abduction and became a founder of the nonprofit organization The Joyful Child, which serves to protect our nation’s children from sexual abuse and abduction through programs that unite and uplift communities. The Joyful Child Foundation is a proud partner in the “Not One More Child” Child Safety Initiative, and the radKIDS child safety educational model, which is recognized as the national leader in violence prevention for children.

According to Ms. Runnion, there are specific steps that parents can take to “eliminate opportunities for sexual abuse to occur.” It is important to note that 90% of sexual abuse is at the hands of someone you know and trust.

Here are her suggestions:

• Even non-verbal babies and toddlers must have their impulses honored. If there is someone that they don’t want to be held by or left alone with, don’t force them. The worst thing you can do is coerce an unwilling child to hug or kiss someone (even if this person is a family member). When we make our child hug or kiss someone, we are telling them to ignore their instincts and that their feelings don’t count.
• Talk to your children before something happens. Teach your children that nobody touches their private parts, and practice with them how to tell someone to stop, scream, and run away. There are many helpful children’s books on this subject, also. As you read the books, answer questions as they come up- even the tough ones. Don’t mince words. You can say something like, “There are people who may seem nice but really want to hurt you. If they ever touch your private parts or tell you it is a ‘secret game’, you must scream “No!” and tell me immediately.
• No sleepovers under the age of 10. Although this may seem extreme, according to Ms. Runnion, this is the most common time for a child to be molested. She suggests that if your child is invited and wants to go, you make it a matter of policy to say, “Mommy comes with or we don’t go.”
• Limit the number of people you leave your child alone with. Talk to them before leaving them with someone new and remind them of your safety rules. Create a private password that your child can use if they are in situation and want to come home. For example, if your child is at a play-date and the big brother or dad is making them uncomfortable, they may be too embarrassed to call and ask to be picked up. But if they call and say, “Did you remember to feed the goldfish?” that is your cue to come and get them right away.
• Have a child ID kit on hand and ready, in case of an emergency. This is an envelope that includes recent photos, medical records, custody papers (if applicable), a cheek swab or fingernail clippings in a plastic bag, fingerprints, and a list of regular activities and the contact info for the adults in charge. According to Ms. Runnion, if your child is abducted, the last thing you want to do is run around trying to get all this information for the authorities- it’s best to have it prepared beforehand and pray that you will never have to need it.
• Above all, trust your instincts. Just because someone seems strange, it doesn’t mean that they are a predator, but it is better safe than sorry.

According to Ms. Runnion, when we talk to our children about how to interact with other people, we place a disproportionate emphasis on the concept of politeness. “Of course we all want sweet and well-mannered children, but their safety is the most important issue. When a child is feeling uncomfortable, they DO NOT need to be polite. They are allowed to scream, yell, kick, bite, or do whatever they need to get away.” Ms. Runnion continued, “Constantly remind your child that their safety is the most important thing to you.”

I admit it…I am a huge fan of The Real Housewives of New York. While I love the entire Real Housewives series, New York is my favorite because I lived in Manhattan and it holds a special place in my heart.  I find the women of the show to be an intoxicating combination of vapid and intriguing, which makes for incredible reality television! Also, being a Jewish woman, I am happy to watch successful, Jewish women on the show.

Jill Zarin recently co-authored the book “Secrets of a Jewish Mother” and I was thrilled to see a famous woman not only acknowledging, but embracing her Judaism. I also assumed that Bethenny Frankel was proudly Jewish, but when I recently watched her on the Real Housewives after-show hosted by Andy Cohen, I was confused by how she responded to a viewer question. Andy received an email asking Bethenny if she was Jewish, which I found odd because she is so obviously a Jew. Bethenny responded, “No, I don’t consider myself Jewish. My dad was Jewish and my mom converted…but I don’t think of myself as Jewish.”

I was stunned. Here is a woman who is as “Jewishy” as they come- she looks Jewish, she sounds Jewish, she has a Jewish name, and Yiddish words are peppered throughout her lexicon. Not to mention the fact that she is 100% Jewish, given the fact that both of her parents are Jewish- Judaism recognizes converts to be as Jewish as if they had been born a Jew. Why would she deny her ethnicity?

Bethenny quickly changed the subject to her new book and talked about all her successes as an author and celebrity chef. Here is a beautiful, accomplished woman who is riding a hard-earned wave of success, yet she flat-out denied her heritage with no explanation. Had she said “I was Jewish, but I found Jesus and converted,” I would have understood. But her only reason for not affiliating with her religion was, “I’m just spiritual.” But how, I wondered, does being Jewish conflict with being “spiritual”?

I found myself feeling a bit like I did when I used to watch Seinfeld. Here were these characters who were so clearly Jewish, but there was never any direct references made to their Judaism. While I thought the show was brilliantly funny, I had a hard time jumping on the “Seinfeld bandwagon” because of the Jewish elephant in the living room. There was something vaguely unsettling and self-hating about the whole thing. I could only speculate that the producers believed that if the characters came out and openly expressed their Judaism they would have lost a large part of their audience because of anti-sentimism. Perhaps they were right.

I wonder if Bethenny feels the same way. I’ve always been a fan of hers on the show; she naturally takes on the role of Greek chorus as her sharp wit and moments of vulnerability showcase her magnetic personality. But now I’m not so sure. I’m disappointed that she had the opportunity to proudly acknowledge her Judaism in front of a mass audience, especially during a time when Jews and the State of Israel need all the support they can get! While people of all creeds and cultures- from Muslims to African-Americans- get major kudos for embracing their heritage, it seems as if Jews are all too often reticent to acknowledge theirs.

It has been a long-standing debate as to whether Judaism is a religion or ethnicity. I’m with most American Jews who tend to think of their Jewishness as a matter of culture. There are certain cultural traits that that are shared by many Jews, just as there are distinguishing characteristics shared by Mexican-Americans or Italian-Americans. Jews in many parts of the world share many of those cultural aspects, which only leads to the fact that Judaism is indeed a culture. So while Bethenny may not be a practicing religious Jew, she is still culturally a Jew, just as an Italian-American who doesn’t practice Catholicism is still Italian.

I can only imagine the uproar if one of the African-American women from the Real Housewives Of Atlanta series denied being black. Can you imagine Nene saying, “Both of my parents were African-American but I don’t consider myself black?” Not only would it be terribly insulting to the African-American community, it would be ridiculous as well. But it seems socially acceptable for Jews to assimilate to the point of denial.

In our society we celebrate racial and religious diversity and this is a wonderful thing- except, maybe, if you are Jewish. I’m now even more proud of Jill Zarin for valuing her heritage enough to write a book that celebrates everything that Judaism, her rich and beautiful faith, has taught her. And I wish Bethenny had the chutzpah to at least answer yes when asked about hers.

*Look at the intense feedback I received when this article was featured on Momlogic Looks the “religion or ethnicity” debate is alive and kicking!

momlogic.com

Last week at my regular yoga class I was surprised when the instructor announced that she would be playing music. In all the years that I have been attending her class, she has never used music. She explained that some of her students had made the request, so while she didn’t love the idea, she was going to practice “flexibility of spirit”. Having attended many yoga classes over the years with and without music, I didn’t have a strong opinion about the matter. That is until one of my worst nightmares came true while I was in downward facing dog!

Yoga is a time for me to take a break and get centered….to calm my mind and challenge my body….to get a mental vacation from my fast-paced life. So when that horrific excuse for a song “You’re Beautiful“- by that greasy-haired rat James Blunt (who somehow managed to seduce many hot celebrities), flooded over the speakers, I shuddered. But I was determined not to let his whiny voice and the pedantic lyrics disrupt my zen.

As I flowed through the asanas, I tried to focus on my breathing and not think about that revolting interview I read where Blunt bragged that he lied to multiple women by telling them that they were the inspiration for his song…just to get them into bed.

I felt disgust rise up in me as Blunt whimpered, “You’re beautiful, you’re beautiful, you’re beautiful, it’s true…”‘ I noticed my feelings of anger and I tried to breath out forgiveness as my body flowed through the yoga poses. But I couldn’t stop thinking of that stringy, slimy, skank as a symbol of everything that is wrong with the male species. And why- oh- why, I wondered, would my seemingly cool and feminist yoga teacher put this wack song by this creepy dude on her playlist?

“Stop thinking“, I told myself.  ”Release your rage. Breathe.”

Then the unimaginable happened. The woman doing yoga next to me began to sing along to the song. Loudly and off -key. God help me.

I considered my options as I heard her squeaky voice merge with Blunt’s pathetic warbling to create a nauseating duet. My instinct was to scream “Shut the fuck up!” at the top of my lungs, but I figured that probably wouldn’t be the most mindful act of compassion. I considered bolting, but dammit, I earned my spot! If after all these years of practicing yoga I couldn’t change my focus and remain calm, I might as well throw in my yoga mat and take up spinning.

I couldn’t resist glaring at the woman as I flowed into Warrior 2. But she was lost in her own fantasy world- undoubtedly making passionate love to this metrosexual freak on some sandy beach as they both crooned, “I saw your face in a crowded place…”

Suddenly the instructor bellowed, “Who is that singing?” she walked over to woman standing next to me and scolded her, “Nikola, is that you? Stop singing! I’m flexible, but not that flexible.”

Nikola (who shockingly was not a pre-pubescent girl but a middle-aged woman) sheepishly smiled, unfazed and unashamed, despite the fact that she was just publicly humiliated for singing karaoke during a yoga class.

Her eyes were glazed over, as she was still caught up in the fantasy of her rock-star boyfriend passionately embracing her while crooning “you’re beautiful…” in her ear. And who was I to disrupt her zen?

But next time sweetheart, sing silently to yourself. Or of you have to belt it out, save it for Beastie Boys or Nirvana!

For Mother’s Day, my five-year-old son presented me with a beautiful, hand painted butterfly magnet that he made for me in preschool. Along with the gift was a card with a photo-copied poem inside that read:

Real mothers don’t eat quiche; they don’t have time to make it.

Real mothers know that dried play dough doesn’t come out of carpets.

Real mothers don’t want to know what the vacuum just sucked up…

Real mothers often have sticky floors and filthy ovens but…

They have happy kids.

How shall I count the ways that this poem insulted me?

First of all, I love to cook and I’m quite good at it. While quiche is not my speciality, I have the time to prepare delicious, healthy meals for myself and my children. It’s something that brings pleasure to me and my family. I love it when my toddler asks to help me, as she shakes seasoning all over salmon fillets and cuts cucumbers into tiny shapes. It also brings me joy when my son sets the table and attempts to fold the napkins into triangle hats.

However, according to the poem, if you have the time to cook, you are a bad mom and neglecting your kids. Extra points if you feed them processed crap full of chemicals. All along I thought I was teaching my kids the importance of good nutrition. By involving them in the process of cooking, I even thought they were even having fun! But apparently “real” mothers are too busy to cook. Doing what? I’m not certain. Because according to this poem, “real” mothers aren’t allowed to clean their homes, either!

I’ve also committed a maternal sin by teaching my children that it is not ok to grind Play-Do into my carpet. Ironically, this exact thing happened a few months ago- my children were playing with Play-Do in my living room. My son had the brilliant idea to make Play-Do pancakes and proceeded to violently stomp on the neon- pink goop on my expensive, wool rug.

Maybe someone should call child protective services, because his consequence was that he had to help me painstakingly remove the Play-Do from the rug, crumb by crumb. I also explained to him that if this ever happened again, Play-Do would be permanently removed from his life, and there was a good chance Sponge-Bob and Skittles would disappear, too! I am pleased to report that this hasn’t recurred, but according to the poem, it’s actually a virtue to have play-do ground into the carpet. I suspect the mom who wrote this asinine poem also lets her children draw on her walls and piss in her garden!

Lastly, according to the poem, if my house is a filthy mess, I am a “real” mother. If my vacuum cleaner is constantly needing to be replaced from sucking up little, made-in-China plastic toy-pieces and my kitchen floor has barf on it, I am a Mommy Rock Star! Again, I must be a “fake” mom because my children have to put their toys away when they’re done playing with them. Also, when something spills, the person responsible for the spill must clean it up- accident or not. And (gasp, gasp!) my three year old daughter puts away her clothes in the hamper and my son makes his bed!

All along I thought I was teaching my children important life skills, like responsibility and discipline, but according to my Mother’s Day poem, a “real” mother lives in a pig-sty where her piglets are allowed to not only run, but destroy, the farm. And if her reaction is anything but “Oh, how cute that Jakey took a piss on my calla-lillies!” or “Look at the gorgeous rainbow that Emma drew on the wall in our den!”, then she’s a nasty bitch who lacks perspective and her unhappy children are being creatively stunted.

So to all the “fake” mothers out there who have the time to cook and value order and cleanliness in your lives, I hope you had a happy Mother’s Day. And to the “real” moms, whose feet stick to the kitchen floor- whose houses look like Romper Room- who subsist on McDonalds and frozen dinners- I hope you enjoyed your day, too.

But I also hope that you went to the spa for at least an hour to escape from the filth and chaos of your home, and that you had the time to eat something delicious and fresh with pronounceable ingredients!

Last Friday, 13-year-old Julia Siegler was killed in a tragic accident when she was hit by two cars on Sunset Blvd in Los Angeles, as she crossed the street to catch her school bus. Her mother was there and witnessed the horrific event, as well as her classmates, who were in the bus and saw it happen too. While I didn’t know Julia or her family personally, she was a member of my community and synagogue.

The clergy received the news shortly after the accident and Rabbi Feinstein was at the hospital immediately, where he was with the family when Julia was pronounced dead. This was also the morning of the Purim celebration at the preschool, and other clergy members stepped in so the children could participate in the parade that they had been excited about all week.

Later in the day when we received notification of the accident, my first response was complete shock, then horror. Like most moms I spoke to, there was an overwhelming sense of hopelessness and horror. One of my greatest fears is losing my children to an accident or disaster that I am powerless to prevent, and it was terrifying to watch this tragedy unfold in my very community.

There is no platitude or spiritual epithet to attach to this senseless and horrific tragedy. Nor is it appropriate for me to indulgently wallow in my feelings of sadness for Julia’s family, given the fact that I don’t know them personally. All I can do is offer to help those in my community who were personally impacted by Julia’s death. I am grateful to have the opportunity to provide grief counseling for the teenagers in the religious school who knew and loved Julia.

Yesterday, I was at the synagogue when I dropped my son off for preschool and took my daughter to her toddler group. The Rabbi came in to talk to the parents while the children played. As he spoke to us of his experience the morning of the accident and over the past few days as he brought the community together and officiated Julia’s funeral, my feelings of sadness and helplessness were replaced with a feeling of love and gratitude.

I wondered what would have happened if the Siegler family had not been members of a synagogue (like many unaffiliated Jews I know). Who would Mr. and Mrs. Siegler called after the accident? From whom would they have received spiritual guidance during the undoubtedly worst experience of their lives? Who would have brought the community together and conducted the funeral?

Many Jews I know choose to not affiliate themselves with a synagogue for reasons varying from “The membership fees are too expensive,” to “What’s the point? I don’t want to go to services.”

I have a much different perspective, which has been only solidified over the past few days. Being part of a spiritual community provides me with an incredible sense of belonging, support, and comfort. Over the past few years, my Rabbi has been there for me in countless ways. Most importantly, he was a great source of support when my mom died of cancer two weeks before my daughter was born. He officiated both of my children’s baby naming ceremonies, and supported me during times of personal difficulties. He helped me while I planned my step-daughter’s Bat Mitzvah, and officiated one of the most spiritual and sincere services I have ever attended. He has an open door policy and is easily accessible and responsive to all of his congregants.

All I can garner from this horrific and senseless tragedy is a reaffirmation of how important it is to be a part of a loving and supportive community. The idea that I am powerless over the fate of the people I love is much more palatable with the knowledge that no matter what calamity or catastrophe may strike, my community has the power to carry me through.

My hope is that all people who are quick to point out what they perceive as all the problems with organized religion will take pause and ask themselves a few tough questions. Who would you call if something horrible happened? Who would hold your hand at the hospital? Who would gather around you, bring you meals, and carry you when you were incapable of taking another step?

While organized religion is not without flaws, in my experience being connected is far, far better than the alternative. How blessed I am to be part of this community.

As much as my five-year-old son loves play-dates, I am ready to throw in the towel. No, it is not the fact that my house looks like a tornado tore through it after Dylan leaves- with chunks of play-do ground into the carpet and sharp Lego pieces scattered everywhere, just waiting for me to step on. It doesn’t even bother me that I have to wipe Hunter’s poopy tushy after he uses the potty. I never utter a complaint when Jake insists that every miniscule speck of apple peel be removed before he eats his snack.

I didn’t even mind when Ella chastised me for putting peanut butter on her crackers. “My mommy said no peanut butter until I’m 10! Don’t you know that peanut allergies are severe and life-threatening?” she admonished when I attempted to smear the ominous spread on her Organic Saltines.

In fact, there is no idiosyncratic preschool behavior that compares to the actions of these kids’ highly neurotic and delusional mothers. While these West Los Angeles women should feel grateful to not have any real problems, they seem desperate to create all sorts of issues for their little Maddie’s and Aiden’s. And while they’re happy to dump their kid at my house for two or three hours of free babysitting so they can get their forehead botoxed or bikini line brazillianed, they’re quick to express all their “concerns” before doing so.

Most recently my son Shane had a play-date scheduled with his good friend Henry from summer-camp. I should have known that any mom who would name her kid Henry (the most clichéd, unoriginal, and obnoxious name of the decade) would be trouble. Henry has been to my home several times for play-dates and while his mom has not yet reciprocated (which is common) I’m happy to have him over because the boys truly love each other and always have a great time. Even their camp-counselor told me what a special connection Shane and Henry have, and how wonderful it is to watch them play in cooperation with each other.

So on the Monday morning before their play-date, I was surprised when I got a call from Henry’s mom. “I just wanted to touch base with you about this afternoon…” she began. What could it be, I wondered? Was the play-date conflicting with Henry’s private Tae Kwon Do lesson, or had he suddenly developed a deadly allergy to glutenous Goldfish Crackers?

She continued, “Henry told me that Shane was not his friend anymore. His feelings are hurt because whenever he plays at your house, Shane gets to choose what they do.”

I felt a slight sting of shame (as most moms do) when someone criticizes their kid. I didn’t want to reactively jump to his defense, so I took a deep breath and pulled out my best psycho-babble, “I have never observed this when they play. They always seem happy together. Perhaps Shane is being controlling because they’re always on his turf- maybe if the boys played at your house Henry will feel empowered again in their relationship.” Barf-bag not included with this sentiment.

She paused…”Well…I really have to go to Malibu this afternoon for an appointment. I’m sure they will be OK at your house. Just have a talk with them beforehand about taking turns and check in on them while they are playing and make sure everyone is happy….ok?”

Are you freaking kidding me? This woman cares enough about this “situation” to confront me about my son’s behavior, but is still willing to leave her kid at my house for three hours? Furthermore, she is now dictating how I speak to the boys and supervise them while they play???

“Listen,” I said, “Henry never seems upset when he’s here- they’re always laughing and having a great time. But if he doesn’t want to come over or is uncomfortable, then let’s cancel.”

She quickly replied, “Let’s not make this a bigger issue than it is- I’m sure they’ll be fine as long as you keep an eye on them.”

What I wanted to say was, “You crazy, neurotic bitch! No wonder boys are so emasculated and have no sense of self anymore- because they have moms like YOU turning them into total wankers. How about teaching precious Henry to SPEAK UP to his friends, rather then creating false problems and coddling him emotionally? And while you are at, how about giving him a normal name, rather than some uber-yuppified cliché name that every other over-indulged, spoiled-brat, West-Side kid has?”

I restrained myself. Barely.

For starters, I find the term “mommy-blogger” off-putting. It’s kind of like the expression “mommy-makeover” or “MILF (which stands for “mommy I’d like to fuck”, in case you were wondering!)  ”Mommy-blogger” feels patronizing, degrading- like a silly, little hobby that one does between changing poopy diapers.

Then there is the actual genre, which has many disturbing qualities, most markedly the blatant exploitation of the mommy’s children and family. I just read a post where the blogger referred to her twins as “the good one and the evil one” and in another post she discussed her feelings of shame over her son’s “wiener”, because he is “not as well endowed as the other toddlers in his swim class.” Disgusting.

On another site, a mommy used her blog to berate various members of her family. Regardless of the circumstances, publishing your rage towards your aunt and mother-in-law on the internet (and mentioning them by first and last name!), is a nasty and passive-aggressive act.

Yes, I write essays about my children and my life. But I have a few rules that I stringently adhere to, which I believe sets me apart from the genre. First and foremost, I mostly make fun of myself.  When I’m recounting an incident with another person, I always fictionalize any identifying information. When I publish anything, I read my essay through the eyes of my children. I ask myself  if anything I wrote could cause them feelings of embarrassment, because once it’s out there, it’s out there.

I hope to inspire, amuse, and provide food for thought on my blogs. And I save my incoherent ramblings, bitch-sessions, and creepy fears and anxieties for my actual journal, which is hidden away in some dusty, old closet, where it belongs.

I dreamt about my mom last night. It’s been awhile since she’s visited me in my dreams. Her appearances come in waves- I’ll see her every night for a week or two, then she’ll disappear for a month or more. She always seems to show up when I need her the most.

In my dream we were in the house that I grew up in, the house where I watched my mom die of cancer two weeks before I gave birth to Kiana, my daughter.

The memories of being there with her during that time are still in my body. I feel a deep pang, from my heart to the pit of my stomach. In my last lucid conversation with my mom, she told me that she knew that she was never going to meet her grand-daughter, the baby in my belly who was almost ready to be born.

Over the past few days I have felt my familiar and uncomfortable angst begin to well up. So many projects- so little time. I’ve questioned if I’m just spinning my wheels. My list is piling up, but at times I’m not even sure what I’m trying to accomplish.

I woke up in the middle of the night with that clenching 3am dread- every latent anxiety surfaces and is magnified without the distractions of my daytime routine. My mind raced from topic to topic- I thought about the upcoming play I will be performing in and the book that I’m working on, and quickly convinced myself that I would fail miserably at both endeavors.

I ruminated about my husband being out of town, and wondered how I would possibly get through the next few weeks without him. I contemplated my grocery list and realized that I had nothing to pack in Shane’s lunchbox. I thought about the audition I had yesterday and counted all the ways I fucked it up. Then I chastised myself for being a shitty friend because of all the phone calls I hadn’t yet returned. 

Everything got clumped together into a mosh-pit until I convinced myself that my entire life was out of control. I wondered why I couldn’t be one of those people who actually sleeps soundly at night. A person who has the capacity to feel some peace. By now I should know better then trying to solve “The Problem Of My Life” at three in the morning!

“The goal is not inner peace!” I heard the words of my favorite Rabbi, Mark Borovitz. “The goal is to struggle with dignity.”

The problem is, my struggles haven’t felt very dignified lately. I’ve been snappy with my children and unable to live in the moment. I’ve been feeling a bit sorry for myself with my husband out of town. I can’t find a good song on my iPod or a decent outfit in my closet. I’ve been procrastinating some challenging writing assignments and waiting for inspiration (which never works), rather then being disciplined and working my way through the creative blocks.

Why so much angst, I wondered again. My life is blessed. My children are healthy, my husband is employed, I can walk to the ocean from my house. I should have the capacity to enjoy my life and stop trying to manage and control everything.

There I go again- now it’s 3:17 am and all I’ve managed to do is beat myself up for how I think “should” be feeling… and, oh yeah, note to self- I’m out of bananas and string cheese!

I thought about my children again. I wondered if I was doing enough or doing too much. I feel incredibly responsibile for their physical and emotional well-being, as I should! But being solely responsible for them when my husband is out of town (as he often is) freaks me out, because in those moments it seems like the power to fuck them up completely rests in my hands.

I remembered the breathing exercise my yoga teacher taught me.”Breath in so, breath out hum.” I’m generally not a fan of chanting mantras, but I was so desperate to shut my brain off that I was willing to try anything. I tossed and turned and breathed.

So. Hum.

After what felt like hours, I fell back asleep. My mom quickly appeared in my dream. She looked just like she did before she went into hospice care, with her cute, highlighted haircut and soft make-up. She was wearing a flowing, linen dress. In other dreams, she is the mom of my childhood with long, bouncy, dark, hair, lots of eyeliner, and blue jeans.

While the details of my mom-dreams are different, the theme is always the same. We’re spending time together and I suddenly realize that she hasn’t really been dead for the past two-and-a-half years, rather she has been on vacation, or even weirder, she’s been staying in her friend’s basement. I’m so relieved that it was all a misunderstanding, and I feel such joy and gratitude to have her back in my life.

I love our relationship in these dreams- free of any inherent mother/daughter conflict. Perfectly simple and easy. I can talk to her about anything and she is wise and non-judgmental.

My mom and I were sitting at the kitchen table in the home I grew up in. I kept marveling at how she was finally back in my life, and how horribly mistaken I had been over the past few years. I told her, “I knew you weren’t really dead!”

Then, we were walking up a hill in my hometown and she was holding my hand. She smelled like her favorite perfume, White Musk from the Body Shop. I told her how much I loved her and missed her. She was smiling and very calm. I had a moment of feeling completely connected to her before she began to fade. She told me she loved me so much but she had to go. She said she was just visiting me again- just making sure I was OK.

When I awoke I wasn’t sure if she was dead, alive or somewhere in-between. The early morning sun filtered through the ficus trees outside my bedroom window and I heard Shane’s little feet padding into my bedroom.

And for one moment, I felt something that maybe, just maybe, resembled peace.

We’ve all been there. You’re at a restaurant with your little munchkin and she innocently leans on the table- perhaps a bit too zealously. It tilts… and all the plates, glasses, and silverware start sliding down. Just as the image of your entire meal crashing to the floor flashes before your eyes, your semi-decent parenting reflexes kick-in and you catch it, and breathe a big sigh of relief that Ella’s mac n’ cheese didn’t go flying across the restaurant!

But have you ever thought about what you would do if the table actually flipped? I wish I had given this issue some serious thought, so I would not have been struck completely dumb when it happened to me!

Why is it that none of the books or child experts ever explain how to deal with our most perplexing parenting moments? Someone should write a book called, “What To Do When Your Kid Flips A Table In A Restaurant.” Other chapter titles would include, “What To Do When Your Kid Barfs On You In The Passport Line At The Airport”, and, my favorite, “What To Do When Your Kid Pisses On His Brand-New Ugg Boots.” Now, that is a book I would definitely buy! So much more useful then all the repetitive, useless drivel out there!

Last Saturday, my friend Michael and I took our five-year-old sons to lunch at California Pizza Kitchen on the 3rd Street Promenade, a restaurant we frequent regularly. CPK is my son Shane’s all-time favorite restaurant and he always gets the same thing:

“Bread with olive oil and balsamic vinegar, a mini cheese pizza, and a raspberry Italian soda!” he proudly ordered when our regular waiter came by. Shane loves to mix up the vinegar and oil and dip his bread into it, a trick he learned from Yours Truly, aka The Queen Of Dipping. Find me an edible surface, and I’ll surely find something to dip it in!

We ate our meal and the boys behaved wonderfully. By the time they finished their hot fudge sundaes with mini m&m’s, our table was piled with plates, glasses, silverware, and, of course, Shane’s beloved olive oil and balsamic vinegar. We paid the bill and I asked Michael to watch the boys while I ran to the restroom. Michael said, “Ok guys, let’s go to the dinosaur fountain outside!” Michael’s son, Cameron, excitedly bounced up and used the table for leverage.

Then it happened….both in slow-motion and so rapidly that nothing could be done to prevent it. The table flipped and everything went flying. Raspberry Italian soda sprayed across the table. Mini m&m’s and goopy hot fudge dribbled onto the ground. A chunk of gnawed-on pizza crust landed on top of some man’s salad sitting at the table next to us.

Then I saw it… that bottle of balsamic vinegar. Shattered in dangerous shards near the man’s feet. For some unbeknown reason, he picked up the largest shard, which still had balsamic vinegar sloshing out of it, and madly raised it in the air. Droplets splattered down his arms and onto his jeans.

It looked like a murder weapon….or the imaginary bloody knife that Macbeth sees floating in the air in Act II. But this wasn’t Shakespeare- it was the real deal. And not only was the man crazily wielding the Balsamic Vinegar Weapon, but he looked fucking pissed-off enough to use it!

My first intinct was to scream, “It wasn’t my child!!!” but I figured that probably wasn’t too cool. Clearly, the perpetrator of the crime couldn’t be held accountable, given that he was only five and sobbing hysterically over the shock of the accident. His father was also unable to apologize to Balsamic Vinegar Dude, because he was busy comforting said child.

So I sat there completely dumbfounded, trying to avert the visual daggers that were being shot in my direction. Instead, I focused on Balsamic Vinegar Dude’s jeans, an acid-washed pair of too-tight True Religions, which were now completely splattered with deep purple stains. I tried to abdicate my guilt by telling myself that any man who dons acid-washed True Religion jeans deserves whatever is coming to him.

“Let’s go” I said, and quickly grabbed my purse and stood up. 

“But don’t you need to go the bathroom?” Michael asked, a typically oblivious male question. Stepping over the carnage and using the bathroom in this restaurant would be like accidentally driving your car through someone’s house then asking the owner for a cup coffee.

 ”I think I can hold it!” I said as I grabbed Shane’s hand and bolted out the door.

Clearly, high-tailing it out of there was not the right thing to do. I should have acknowledged the incident and, at the very least, apologized to the man. But a mere apology didn’t seem like enough, given the gravity of the situation. I suppose I could have offered to buy him a new pair of True Religion jeans, but I could not aid and abet such a hideous fashion crime!

I guess I won’t be eating at that CPK anymore!!!

Perhaps I need to find a new hobby because I seem to spend most of my days wondering if I am a good-enough mom. When the gift of introspection meets an inherent tendency to beat myself up mercilessly over the smallest thing (real or imagined), my maternal angst blossoms. The fact that I am clinical social worker only exacerbates the problem because like most shrinks, I am incapable of applying any of my knowledge to myself.

I want my children to evolve into kind, compassionate adults and I hope to always have a close bond with them, but every child expert and parenting book purports a different philosophy on how to get there. The bottom line- I pray my kids won’t be total losers when they are adults and blame me for all their problems!

There’s just too much information out there, so in an effort to simplify things in my own mind, I reflected on my adult clients who had contentious relationships with their parents. How could I avoid going down the same road with my own children?

After treating many people with deeply ingrained self-defeating, destructive, and dysfunctional behaviors that are so challenging to interpret, I made up my own diagnosis for these conditions: Shitty Mom Syndrome. I am rallying to get it in the DSM IV.

I have concluded that the diagnosis of Shitty Mom is responsible for almost all problems, including (but not limited to): self-esteem issues, personality disorders, and dysfunctional emotions like depression, anxiety, rage, hostility, apathy and hopelessness. Yes, if your feeling like shit, you must have had a Shitty Mom.

How about substance abuse; abuse of others; abuse of ourselves, and eating disorders? If you shoot up, shoot people, pop pills, eat like a pig, or slice your skin, you can blame your Shitty Mommy.

Ever known a shopaholic or kleptomaniac? Bet she had a Shitty Mom (and really cute clothes, too!)

Do you have any physical maladies including fatigue, chronic colds and other infections? What about high blood pressure, heart disease, skin problems, or intestinal disorders? Yes, if you have ever had a case of “the shits”, you most likely had a Shitty Mom.

How’s your guilt now, Mama? Wanna add anything to the list?

Anyone who has been in long-term therapy knows what I am taking about- it always comes down to Shitty Mom. That seems to be the one kernel of truth buried beneath all the layers of bullshit. In fact, the very goal of therapy seems to be stripping away at those layers and facing the fact that your mama was “Yo Mama!”, i.e., she totally sucked. You had a Shitty Mom. And that is why you are such a mess.

So, I have now decided to simplify my own goals as a mom. Instead of rifling through the myriad of parenting books and philosophies-rather then consulting with fancy experts in an attempt to make sense of the complicated task of mothering- I have decided to take a very untherapeutic approach to the situation.

I will do everything in power to ensure that my children do not end up on a therapist’s couch and spend thousands of dollars to be told that I was a Shitty Mom. Whatever it takes!

Shitty Mom Assessment Quiz to follow….