My son's new life’s mission is to make me insane (this compared with his old life’s mission which was to make me crazy).  This morning we arrived at preschool, got out of the car, I was holding his sister, 11 months his junior (I attribute this unfortunate spacing to the fact that my sex education class in the 5th grade involved a black and white film which predated the first ever documented act of sex and the demonstration of a maxi pad which predated the first ever documented Cathy Rigby maxi pad commercial) a backpack, two lunches, and two sippies, when all of a sudden Crusher decided to plop himself down on the sidewalk and stage a sit-in.  At that exact moment in time I had to quickly review my own personal feelings on child abuse.  It took me a minute or two to remember I'm against it.

During my-two-year-old son’s retro hippy sit-in, right before he hugged the tree and tried to chain himself to the playground, I thought back to every parenting book I’ve ever read, every parenting class I’ve ever taken and desperately tried to remember any strategy which might help me successfully cajole him back onto his feet.  It was in this moment I realized those strategies aren’t sculpted to reign in the undisciplined or uncork the positive energy of a misguided muppet, but rather a conspiracy carefully crafted to freak me out!  I’ve decided I’m going to pen a parenting book to cater to the masses, to help reassure we realists who know that not swearing in front of our kids severely cripples their vocabulary opportunities, and not drinking in front them severely cripples their rush week opportunities.

I’m considering titling my book Birth to Adulthood: The long walk to therapy, and the chapter titles of my yet-to-be-written book are as follows:

1. Find G-d.
 
2. Tell him you're sorry (for nothing in particular- JUST DO IT!).
 
3.  Allow your child to watch TV for a reasonable amount of time each day.
 
4. Change your previously held beliefs of what "reasonable amount of time" is.  For future reference, it's now loosely defined as "Whenever the kids are awake and your husband’s not home.”
 
5. Join a playgroup to reassure self that other kids are freaks of nature, too.
 
6. Grow out your pinky fingernail- it's easier to pick their noses than to use that stupid blue bulb thing.
 
7. Choices are overrated.  Give them none.  They can pick out their own darn clothes to wear when they're old enough to appreciate vintage Jordache skinny jeans, circa 1982.

Anyway, my point, if I had one, would be that even on such a difficult day my sanity was able to be temporarily restored in the afternoon giving me hope.  Hope that not every moment of every day will be so difficult, and also hope that one day I’ll no longer drive a minivan. 

Fortunately, after I got my kids home from school and napped, I met a friend at the gym and we put our kids in the child care, ate dinner in the cafe and chatted for a couple of hours.  Nothing's cooler than when the child care lady (and by "lady" I mean random girl who got her driver's license a week ago Tuesday) asks if you'll be in cardio or weight training and you lamely reply, "Uh, cafe."  All this while dressed in the work-out clothes I put on seven hours earlier when I vowed today would be the day I'd regain my motivation. 

This much needed reprieve from purple dinosaurs and grown men who wiggle helped me gain a little perspective and reflect upon my first couple of years of motherhood.  I realized after all of the bonding from countless sleepless nights, feedings, bathings, hugs and kisses I’ve only learned one thing for sure.  If a toddler insists on eating food she’s dropped on the floor, let her throw broccoli.