Susan Krushenick

A WOMB WITH A VIEW:

1. Momma's Little Surprise (May 2004)
2. Tales from 'TV Turn-off Week' (April 2004),
3. Button Day (March 2004)
4. 50 Lessons of Motherhood (January 2004)
5. Birthing a New Tradition (December 2003)
6. Falling Down (November 2003)
7. Dear Mother Nature (October 2003)
8. What I Did Over Summer Vacation (September 2003)
9. What Would Happen If...? (August 2003)
10. Operation Evacuation (July 2003)
11. Are You a Candidate for Mother-of-the-Year? (May 2003)

Momma's Little Surprise

I got a call from a friend the other day, asking me if 7:00 a.m. is too early to start drinking when one must try on mail-order bathing suits. I said, “Hell, NO! And if I were you, I would start slamming down the tequila an hour prior to ripping into the first plastic bag.”

She thanked me and said she knew she could count on my support. “No problem,” I replied, us women need to stick together.

Her phone call sent me into shock as it reminded me it is that time of year again and somehow I forgot to go on a diet. I’m not vain; I’m fat. Over the past sixteen years, my husband and I gained seventy-five pounds collectively. Sadly, our accountant rolled his eyes at us when we asked if we could claim our girth as a new dependant. I said, “Come On! We’ve gained the equivalent of a fourth-grader, that’s gotta count for something.” His answer was a firm NO.

At any rate, it is time for my annual disrobing and a chance to see what one more year has done to my body. Will I have a new collection of moles, another butt pucker, or an array of colorful bruises from all the things I bang into as I travel through my house?

Worse, by far though, is that this year I need to buy a new bathing suit and the thought gives me tremors, especially because of what happened the last time I bought a new suit.

I forked over eighty-bucks for a catalog swimsuit that promised I would look slimmer, trimmer, and younger. Yeah, I know I fool heartedly bought into the propaganda, but at this point in my life, I would try Voodoo if I thought it would work.

I decided on the black mock tankini that came equipped with a shelf bra and the promise that the steel-enforced fabric would tuck my tummy and firm my fanny. It arrived the day we left for vacation, so I threw it in my suitcase and headed for the beach.

I tugged, I pulled, I sweated. An hour later, the suit was on and, oh boy, did I feel fabulously firm. I walked to the full-length mirror and let out a scream so primal that my kids banged on the bedroom door, asking if they should call an ambulance.

I told them no, but then said that maybe they could call the local butcher and ask if he’s interested in buying a human sausage link.

The shelf bra worked its magic. It coaxed my normally mid-section hanging breasts up to my earlobes. I now had what looked like a horrible case of Mumps. Not only that, but some of the flesh decided it did not want to meet my neck and would rather hang out elsewhere. If I didn’t know better, I would have sworn someone shoved hotdog rolls under my armpits.

As for the tummy tucker, well there is a little known scientific fact that states, “What gets smushed in, also gets smushed out.”

Sure, I had a flat tummy but that’s because all the subcutaneous fat pushed itself down and out of the bottom of the suit. I had a sorry case of frontal butt cheeks.

After that, I swore I’d never purchase another swimsuit again until I lost weight, but like I said, somehow dieting slipped my mind. This year, I am trying a new approach to the swimsuit fiasco. I told my husband and children that for Mother’s Day, I would rather have a gift certificate to the local sporting goods store, instead of the usual dinner out. When they asked me why, I said, “It’s a surprise.”

This summer, I’m gonna buy me a full-length wetsuit. Whadda ya think about that? Creative huh? No more crying or screaming for me. No-siree, this year, I’ll be tucked and smooth from neck to ankles.

I’ve decided against the flippers, though. I do have long, slim toes that I want to accentuate with pink, day-glow toenail polish. As for the goggles, I’m still not sure. My impeccable fashion sense tells me that would be overdoing it.

Golly, I just had a fabulous thought. My thirteen-year-old daughter finds my mere presence on this earth an embarrassment to her. Wait until she gets a load of my new beachwear.

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Copyright 2004 Susan Krushenick

Susan Krushenick graduated from Vermont College with a B.A. in Liberal Arts, with a concentration in both Creative Writing and Sociology. Recently, she participated in the Vermont Artist's Residency Week. Although originally from New Jersey, Susan now lives in Warren, Vermont with her husband Josh, and her two children, Torey and Jackson. Her oldest son, Ryan, recently moved out).

Tales from 'TV Turn-off Week'

I am SO proud of myself. This year when my son came home from school telling me that it was once again “TV Turn-Off Week”, I did not utter a single cuss. I smiled and said, “That’s nice honey,” and went straight to the bathroom where I filled the tub to see if I could drown myself in three inches of water. I couldn’t. But I could hold my breath to the count of 63 Mississippi.

After I stopped gasping for air and my cheeks turned pink, I asked my son what he planned on doing during his media exile. He said, “Play board games with you, Mommy.”

It was back to the bathroom for me, where I learned you cannot drown yourself under the shower head, either.

That night we played every blessed game on his shelf. First, we played Hang Man. The object of the game is to guess your opponent’s word within ten tries, otherwise your nimble mindedness sends you to the gallows for an old-fashioned lynching.

Then we played Battleship. Object? Launch a series of missiles until you blast all your opponent’s warships out of the ocean. We have the original version, but there is an electronic version that offers war sounds. I wonder if you can hear the screaming of the “collateral damage” as they're being blown to smithereens.

Next, it was Clue. The object of this game is to be the first to figure out who murdered whom, where, and with which weapon. Let’s see now: Did Colonel Mustard whack the shit out of Miss Scarlet in the kitchen with a candlestick? Or, did Mrs. Peacock splatter Mr. Green’s brains on the wall in the lounge with a revolver?

After that, came Monopoly. The object is to move around the board, being the first to buy and then gentrify all properties, until you economically bar your opponents from the community. If you’re lucky, your opponents spend most of their time in jail without bail money. You win when you’ve successfully cast your opponents into abject poverty.

Finally, we played The Game of Life. The object is to retire with the most money, although what makes this game interesting is what happens on your way to Millionaire Acres.

First, you decide whether to take the college route. If you don’t go to college, you’re stuck with the first career and salary card you choose. Forget about a midlife career change, not allowed in this Life.

Whether you opt for college or head straight to work, as soon as you choose your career you must STOP to be married. Remember that living-single-until-I’m-well-established plan? Forget about it. You’re stuck with the schmuck you planned on ditching. I told my son that if I HAD to marry, I would marry a woman and he said, “Girls can’t marry girls, Mommy”.

I said, “Oh, yes they can. Here in Vermont, we call it a Civil Union.” He let out a hard giggle.

After the nuptials, in The Game of Life you must STOP again to purchase a home. When I raised my objections, telling my son how I never wanted to own a home, and that I wanted to rent a loft in SoHo and work as a writer, he laughed and said, “Mommy you have to follow the rules.”

To which I responded, “Why?”

I found myself in The Game of Life, twenty-five-years-old, married to someone I loathed, working as an accountant, living in a Tudor in the suburbs, and I had to STOP again to have kids. I had twins, for god’s sake. I yelled out, “Wait a cotton-picking minute. Where are the birth-control cards?”

“I don’t want to have kids. I’m too young. I hate my partner, and I want to live in the city.”

My son looked at me with his sly grin and then asked, “What’s birth control?”

Two spins later, I birthed another set of twins.

Then as I approached Millionaire Acres, something occurred to me. I spent my entire life following the rules and here I was about to retire with that jackass mate of mine still in the passenger seat and all those kids I had (because I wasn’t granted reproductive rights) were still in the backseat! I figured I was around sixty-five, which would make those little brats, about forty-frigin-years-old and they were still sponging off me!

In the end, my son won the game, since he acquired more Life Cards than me. As he happily counted his loot, I said to him, “You may have more money than me, but really, honey, was your life worth it? Did you follow your dreams? To be honest, Jackson, I have a million bucks in my hand and my life SUCKED!”

He laughed and said, “Oh, Mommy, it’s just a game. But next time, we can make up our own rules.”

After we put away the game, I suggested we nix TV Turn-Off for the rest of the night. Sponge Bob Square Pants was airing a new episode and I had enough of playing good old-fashioned board games where in order to win you must kill someone, send her into poverty, or suck her dreams right out of her.

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Copyright 2004 Susan Krushenick

Susan Krushenick graduated from Vermont College with a B.A. in Liberal Arts, with a concentration in both Creative Writing and Sociology. Recently, she participated in the Vermont Artist's Residency Week. Although originally from New Jersey, Susan now lives in Warren, Vermont with her husband Josh, two children, Torey and Jackson (her oldest son, Ryan, recently moved out).

Button Day

I don’t know what got into me. Perhaps my second pregnancy made my mind wooly. Or maybe it happened because I was living in an upper-middle class town, where my husband and I were among one of the few families driving around in old beaters, instead of the status quo Mercedes station wagon.

Possibly, it was a latent response to an experience I had with a mother who refused to allow her son to play at my house during the summer because we had only one air conditioner. As she put it, “My Liam gets cranky when he’s too hot and I don’t think one air conditioner will keep your house cool enough for him.”

Regardless of the reason, I did the unthinkable: I engaged in a battle of competitive mothering. It started the day my six-year-old son came home from school with a bulletin announcing the upcoming School Spirit Week hosted by the PTA. I was six-months pregnant and working four nights a week in order to keep a rental roof over our heads and my 1974 Ford Maverick on the road. I knew from previous experiences that PTA events meant two things: Time and money — neither of which I had.

My tired emotions took over and I belted out, “Oh for chrissakes! Don’t these women have more important things to do, like drink tea and play Bridge? Every time I turn around —” I stopped mid-sentence as I noticed the look on my son’s face. I’d just pierced his happy balloon.

I recanted quickly, telling my son that I wasn’t upset with the PTA. It’s me. I’m in a crummy mood. Then I lied like a pro, telling him what a fabulous idea Spirit Week was, and how I could hardly wait to gather up his Spirit costumes.

Monday was hat day. That was easy, I thought, as Ryan left the house wearing his favorite New York Mets baseball cap. Easy, until I arrived Monday afternoon to pick him up and watched his little cap vanish among a sea of gigantic jingly, jangly, sparkly, seventy-five-dollar-a-pop, hats purchased in Disney World. Tuesday was red, white, and blue day. Too patriotic for me, but it was cheap and easy. Wednesday — wrong side out clothing (more or less a normal day at our house). Thursday — mismatched socks. So far, so good. I was still holding up.

Then came Friday, otherwise known as Button Day. The letter stated, “Come to school wearing as many buttons as possible.”

I cracked. “Have they lost their Earl Grey soaked minds?” I yelled. “What kind of nonsense is this? What the hell do buttons have to do with School Spirit?” I had no idea what to do. Ryan didn’t own a thing with buttons. His shirts were pull-over; his pants had snaps; his sneakers had Velcro. Even his spring jacket had a zipper.

I declared war! I’d be damned if my son would once again be out-done and lost among a throng of wealthy little kids covered in expensive, spectacular buttons. I had to act fast.

I raced to my bedroom closet and pulled out the plastic sewing kit I had since seventh-grade Home Economics class. Beneath the last compartment, just as I’d remembered, sat a bag of buttons, hundreds of buttons. I pulled an old shirt out of his drawer and began to sew and sew and sew.

Hours later, his shirt glistened, top to bottom, with red, brown, purple, green, and orange buttons. There were two-hole, four-hole, and even a few expensive one-hole brass buttons, which I attached around the neckline. Tomorrow, I thought, as I put away my sewing box and bandaged my bloodied fingers, my son will be king of his castle. Tomorrow, those Jackie O wannabes can kiss my working-class rear end.

On Friday afternoon I arrived early to pick up my son. I wanted to witness the look of pride on his face as he exited the school. I wanted to watch the awe and envy of his classmates. Surly, he’d won the prize for the most buttons.

Finally, the bell rang, the doors flew open, and OH-MY-GOD! The kids weren’t wearing buttons, they were wearing PINS! They wore Ninja Mutant Turtle pins, New Kids on the Block pins, sports pins, pins with silly sayings, and yes, pins from Disney World. I wanted to hit the gas and not stop until I plunged into the Pacific Ocean. The last child out was my son, looking like a poster freak for Joanne Fabrics.

I cried between bouts of hysterical laughter, as I thought about how embarrassed he must have felt. I wondered how much taunting he received. I cringed as I calculated what this would cost me years from now when he landed in therapy to work through “Button Day.”

I held my breath as he walked to the car, and before he had time to fasten his seat belt, I starting rattling off apologies, while explaining the difference between a pin and a button and how they said buttons and not pins and . . .

“It’s okay, Mommy, my teacher said she liked my shirt the best because I was the only one wearing REAL buttons.” That was all he said. We drove home in silence.

Last week, I asked my son if he remembered Button Day, and he said, “Oh, God, Mom. It was really horrible.”

That was all he said. And then we sat together in silence.

I’m still waiting for his therapist’s bill.

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Copyright 2004 Susan Krushenick

50 Lessons of Motherhood

If you scrub an infant’s head everyday, he will not get cradle cap.

He will, however, be bald within six weeks.

If an infant’s cold medication reads “may cause drowsiness or hyperactivity,” plan on the longest night of your life.

Infants are capable of bowel movements that explode everywhere, yet completely miss the diaper.

A hamster cannot fly, even when thrown down the stairs, twice.

Goldfish DO explode when fed an econo-size container of food in one sitting.

Dead goldfish begin to smell one-hour after combustion.

If the cat is missing, check your daughter’s panty drawer before scouting the neighborhood.

A teenage boy will buy a pet rat even after Mom says NO!

Teenage boy will hide rat in his room. Rat will escape.

Boy and siblings will spend two-weeks looking for rat, unbeknownst to Mom.

Mom will let out a blood-curdling scream when said rodent scampers across her bedroom floor in middle of night.

Feline de-worming pills are not poisonous.

A few licks to the top of a cleanser can are not poisonous.

A & D ointment is not poisonous.

Six parts water to one part bleach is mildly poisonous.

Poison Control cannot help a child who swallows a plum pit.

Plum pits come out a few hours later, completely intact.

Poison Control asks for your name each time you call. It’s a bad sign when they already know who you are.

Teach children how to use 911.

Teach children the difference between needing help and an “emergency.”

Needing help reaching a jar of jelly is NOT an emergency.

Police respond in person to ALL 911 calls.

Police bring home children found wandering the streets in diapers and nightshirts.

Police respond quickly when car keys and toddler are locked in car.

Police respond quickly when car keys and toddler are locked in car AGAIN.

Apparently, the police and Poison Control do not communicate with each other.

Raisins plump when cooked and when shoved up nostrils.

Same goes for rice.

A good, hard sneeze expels rice.

Raisins require tweezers.

In a pinch, baking soda is a good substitute for the missing deodorant stick.

If toilet is overflowing and plunging does not help, you’ve found the deodorant.

Never use a screwdriver and hammer to bust up the plastic deodorant stick, which is jammed in base of
toilet.

Plumbers cement works well at repairing small holes and cracks in toilet caused by screwdriver and hammer.

VCRs break when used as a parking garage for Matchbox cars.

VCRs break when fed a 10-ounce glass of chocolate milk.

VCRs break when pencils and peanut butter crackers are shoved inside them.

Never buy cargo pants for eight-year-old boys who love Yu-Gi-Oh! cards.

Eight-year-old boys will hide $30 worth of said cards in the knee region of pants.

Moms will not know this until they take pants out of washer and notice a large, wet lump.

Moms will spend half an hour peeling apart each card and laying them flat on kitchen table to dry.

Moms will spend $500 for an airline to ticket to California.

Moms will stay in California until screaming sons get over the loss of their beloved cards.

Moms will consider staying in California until the last child goes to college.

Toddlers like to spit out vegetables.

Toddlers like to swallow: spiders, crud on bottom of shoes, dog food, cat turds, Play-doh, and moldy
backwash from beer bottles left in recycling bin.

Never tell a four-year-old that poop is the extra food the body does not need.

Never tell a four-year-old this, especially, if he’s recently eaten chocolate.

The scent of poop lingers on a child’s breath for approximately one day.

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Copyright 2004 Susan Krushenick

Birthing a New Tradition

Friends of mine celebrate Hanukah. Each year, they leave for vacation two days before Christmas. They tell their children how lucky Santa is that they are Jewish because he gets to convalesce in their home after his night of delivering gifts. The kids leave cookies for Santa, and when they arrive home, they find he’s left a few gifts and a thank you note for their hospitality.

My family celebrates Christmas. Last year when my husband and I told our friends about our Christmas morning ritual, I was sure they would look upon us with awe and call us holiday geniuses. Instead, our most boisterous friend stood up, pointed her long finger at us, and said, “You two are Christmas Nazis.” Can you believe that? I think someone needs to lay off the Seinfeld reruns.

It all started five years ago when I was working two jobs and could not find the time to wrap presents. My husband saw my predicament and said, “Oh, Honey Bunny, don’t worry about a thing. I’ll do the wrapping.”
Okay, that’s not what he said, but after I yelled and screamed and used words that would make a sailor blush, he said he’d help me out and then said my mouth needed a good washing.

Three nights before Christmas, I arrived home from work to find my husband lying on the bed, covered head to feet in tiny pieces of Scotch tape. He told me he wrapped the gifts, but (a) I forgot to buy gift tags, so he couldn’t address the presents, and (b) he didn’t know which gifts belonged to whom, anyway.

My mouth was still foaming from the last incident, so I held back my thoughts and said very sweetly, “So tell me Einstein, if you didn’t address the gifts, how are we supposed to know who gets what?”

“I numbered the gifts with a black marker. On your bureau there’s a Master List so you will know what the gifts are and can tag them accordingly.”

The list read: 1. Beauty Shop Barbie. 2. Smashing Pumpkins CD. 3. Kerplunk,, etc. Oh, you wonderful Oaf, “This is brilliant,” I told him, amazed with his invention. “I’m not tagging anything; I have a better idea. Let’s put them under the tree as is. When the kids wake up, they won’t know who gets what, which means they won’t be shaking, sniffing, or trying to undo the tape to get a peek.”

Oaffy-kins loved the idea and added that we should make a new list -- call it Santa’s list--and hide it, so the kids would have to find it before the festivities began. Hence, a new tradition was born.

Here’s how it works: The kids open their stockings as soon as they wake up; however, they must wait until 7:00 a.m. before waking us.

While my husband brews coffee and I frantically search for the camera that I misplace every year, the kids hunt for the list, which by the way, I make three copies of in case I misplace the first two. And on Santa’s List, the numbers correspond with the child’s name, not with what’s in the box. When the list is found, we begin.

Poppa Christmas, or Fat Boy as I call him, crawls among the gifts and yells out a number. The child holding the list then calls out to whom the gift belongs. Gifts are opened one person at a time, all others must watch. (That was my idea. I hate missing facial reactions). Usually, the same person cannot be called twice in a row, unless someone has a few more gifts than the others. Financially speaking, it’s all equal, but face it, an X-box costs a lot more than a Rat-Tat-Tat card game.

My husband, being the numbers whiz that he is, has the gift-dispersing process down to a science. The grand finale is when we each have one package left and together we rip them open, all finishing at the same time. The entire process takes over two-and-a-half hours.

In a nutshell, our Christmas morning ritual all started because I once forgot to buy gift tags and because my husband could not figure out whether the Barbie belonged to his fourteen-year-old son, his three-year-old son, or his seven-year-old daughter. Thank goodness, I forgot the tags. I can only imagine the mayhem had my mental giant given our fourteen-year-old the American Girl doll, our daughter the eyebrow piercing gift certificate, and our youngest the Black and Decker Weed Whacker that I mistakenly placed among the children’s gifts.

Maybe there is a fraction of truth to what my friend said, but Christmas Nazis? That’s going a bit too far. After all, we never say, “No, no gift for you.” Instead, we say, “No, no gift for you, you just had a turn!”

And besides, we’ve reduced our Christmas spending by two bucks now that I no longer have to purchase tags.

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Copyright 2003 Susan Krushenick

Falling Down

The thing about a panic attack is that it lets us know we are in over our heads; our nervous systems are screaming for us to stop and take a moment to breathe. But as the saying goes, “Easier said than done!”

I had my first, and hopefully only, panic attack last month — in the middle of the grocery store, for cripes sake.

I had no idea what was happening to me, and because I am a writer with a fertile imagination, I was certain I was dying; about to bite the dust; buy the farm; kick the bucket.

It all started a year ago when I noticed from time to time that my heart was racing, nearly pounding out of my chest. As the palpitations grew in frequency and intensity, so did my imagination. By the time I walked into the grocery store that day, my heart was out of control and stars were twinkling around me.

I placed my order at the deli counter and headed to the meat section. All of a sudden, I could not breathe; my hands, toes, feet, and lips went numb. A sharp pain shot through my head and I could barely lift my legs. "This is it," I told myself. "It's the big one." It never occurred to me that I would share my last few minutes on earth with a pound of boiled ham and a pound of Swiss cheese, imported Swiss, that is.

So there I was, positive I was suffering a heart attack, stroke, or had a brain tumor. I labored back to the deli department and clutched onto the arm of the poor guy standing next to me, who was just trying to get himself a tuna on rye and small tub of potato salad. This nice fellow (who probably wished he had gone to Subway) sat me down on the shelf under the bagel case. The next thing I know, the paramedics race in, place an oxygen mask on me, hook me up to an EKG monitor, and off we go to the ER. By this point, I was praying it was serious; otherwise, I just made a complete ass of myself.

It turns out, my heart and brain are okie-dokie, fit-as-fiddles. What I had, said the cute, curly-haired P.A., was a "classic, straight from the textbook, panic attack."

Great, I thought to myself — frigin' great. Here I am, hooked up to this blasted machine, the top half of me nearly exposed, showing off my breasts that look like two watermelons in a down hill race, and Mr. Cutie-Pie with a body more fit than my heart, is telling me, I momentarily fell off my rocker! There were only two words fitting for my situation: “Fuck Me.”

I left the ER, humiliated, shaken, and with a prescription for Ativan-the same drug my father had an endless supply of. Those same two words flew around my brain again, only this time I added "royally". It seems some children inherit their parent's intellect, creativity, straight, chalk-white teeth. Me, I inherited my dad's worrywart gene. Here come those words again.

I am feeling better now, thanks to an anti-anxiety medication. However, I am also spending time thinking about how and why I fell down — literally and figuratively — that day at the supermarket.

Sure, heredity played a role in my collapse, but is only part of the reason. I'm living in a world where I am expected to course through life at ninety-miles an hour, only my vehicle prefers to run around forty-miles-an-hour. I am happiest when I can take my time and set my speedometer to a pace that allows me time to think and reflect on where I am at, not where I am going, or where I should be headed.

Trying to live my life perfectly as a woman, mother, writer, and wife has finally taken its toll. Lately, my brain keeps singing the 70’s jingle —”I can bring home the bacon, fry it up in the pan, and never let you forget you're a man. Cause I'm a WOMAN."

What bunch of horse dung! Yes, I CAN do all that, but not all at the same time. The burden is too heavy, not only for me, but for all women. I watch my friends racing around, bleary- eyed and frustrated as they try to keep with the status quo. It's as though, as women, we are forced to run the gauntlet, where we must duck and weave all the blows that seek to tell us, "See, you women are too weak to handle the pressure".

Maybe I am paranoid (great, thanks again Dad) but I often wonder if our workload is some sort of punishment for demanding that we be treated equally to men. I'm not male-bashing here. I'm only saying that as I struggle to make my footprints in the one life I know for certain I've been granted, I've come to learn that I cannot do it all.

As for that stupid jingle, how could women possibly let men forget who they are? After all, as long as we women continue to bear the full load of our familial roles as taxi driver, nurse, housekeeper, laundress, accountant, social director, seamstress, chef, nutritionist, psychologist, secretary, wet nurse, human tracking device, events planner, gardener, and bacon provider (whether it’s a whole slab or a few strips), there should be no question as to who’s the man and who's the woman.

Wouldn't it be great it someone invented a human radar gun that buzzed each time we went over our personal speed limits? I suspect this would reduce our crash and burns. I also suspect the drug companies would suffer a sharp decline in sales.

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Copyright 2003 Susan Krushenick

Dear Mother Nature

Dear Mother Nature,

We need to talk. As you know, I recently turned forty-years-old, and it's been a harrowing experience to say the least. What you don't know, however, is that it's been troublesome because, well, because your sense of humor SUCKS! I'm sorry, but someone needs to tell you this and I am taking the liberty to speak not only for myself, but also for all your maturing daughters out there. We have had enough of your shenanigans.

Listen, we all understand how hard it is to do the same job year in and year out. No one is blaming you for trying out something other than creating every blessed thing on this earth, especially since you've been doing it for about gazillion years. We are behind you, honest we are. Although, I suspect you'll soon lose our affection if you don't quit this comedy routine of yours.

Face it Mother Dear, Chris Rock is funny, Dave Barry is funny, Margaret Cho is funny. You, on the other hand, might want to consider taking up pottery or woodworking.

Yes, yes, I know, you are probably thinking that I have no idea what I am talking about and since so many people have cited you as having a sense of humor, you think, perhaps, I am the one who lacks wit. Not true! I laugh at many, many things; however, here are a few of your pranks that I don't find the least bit amusing.

Remember just the other day when I was about to tweeze my eyebrows? Do you recall how first I had to find my glasses but could not for the life of me remember where I last put them, so I went into panic-mode because without my bifocals I'd be lucky to find my front door? And if this weren't bad enough, I found myself at a dead stop in the middle of my bedroom, unsure of why I was there, so I went back down the stairs, only to remember I was looking for my glasses and up again I went. Sure, maybe this tickled you, but I don't find it funny when you play, “Watch Susan battle perio-menapause and pre-Alzheimer's at the same time”.

Then, do you remember how I sat on top of my bathroom sink with my nose pressed against the mirror and never once smirked as I noticed how large my eyes looked behind those thick lenses of mine? What made you think I would find eyes the size of grapefruits funny? Is there merriment found in the waning of one's eyesight? If so, I don't get it.

And besides, the plucking one's eyebrows, including the space between them, is no laughing matter. Contrary to what some nitwit told you, there is no humor in unibrows, or in stray, vagrant hairs. Did you, even once, catch me snickering as I plucked hairs from my cheek, chin, breasts? Did I burst into laughter when I noticed six brown desperados setting up camp near my belly button? Did I hee-hee when I realized that what once took me three-minutes to accomplish, now takes over an hour?

Randomly placing hairs on maturing women's bodies is not amusing and neither is making us wonder if we will look like Cousin It by our eightieth birthdays. Since I mentioned breasts, I might I as well let you in on a little secret. There is not a woman alive who finds it a laughable occasion when she realizes her once-perky breasts are now in competition with her jowls to see which hits the floor first. Clearly, there are no winners here.

Peeing one's pants? Now here is another not-so-comical issue. Aren't you a bit old to partake in bathroom humor? Seriously, can you explain why it is that after granting me the ability to give birth three times, you thought I would get a rise out of never being able to sneeze, laugh, or run again without suffering from a terrific case of wet-butt? Does it amuse you to watch me cross my legs in public each time I sneeze, fearing the sneeze will rip through my nose and underpants?

Yeah, it's real freaking hilarious when my children say to their father, "Daddy, make Mommy laugh so she pees her pants." I bet you just LOVE watching me stand there screaming at him to stop because "you-know-what" is going to happen, and then it does happen, and my kids roll round the floor, howling and clutching their bellies, while I skulk up to the bedroom.

And what about those laugh lines? This is your idea of humor? Crows feet? Ha-Ha-Ha. SPIDER VEINS? Yeah, funny. Why don't you up the ante and model them after Charlotte's Web so they spell out sayings like, OLD COOT or OVER FORTY or THE BREASTS WON! Or my favorite: WETS PANTS. We'd bust a stitch over this.

Look Ma, I am not trying to discourage you from finding your Authentic Self. I simply want you to stop wreaking comedic havoc on women's maturing bodies. It doesn't amuse us one iota. What might, on the other hand, tickle our fancies and get us back in your corner, is if you gender-balance your pranks.

After all, what follies do you play on middle-aged men? Balding their heads? Big Deal! What if you did something truly hilarious? What if you played a trick or two on men that made us women pee-our-pants and be happy that we did? What if, say, you made it so that when men reach middle-age they spontaneously lactate?

Picture this: Joe Schmo, CEO of Superman Systems, is about to begin a very important meeting when he realizes his Brooks Brothers shirt is soaking wet. He then runs to the restroom, only to learn he has gotten his lactation and did not bring any pads with him. Not knowing what to do, and not wanting to hold up his meeting and appear as though he cannot handle his high-level position, he takes off his shoes, balls up his socks, and stuffs them down his milk-stained shirt. He spends the entirety of the meeting talking with his arms folded over his chest, praying no one sees his bulging bosoms or the gigantic wet stain.

Now, that's funny! And, I'll guarantee many of us women will forgive you for the spider veins, and maybe even, the crow's feet. Well, that's all for now Mother Nature. I do hope you give this some thought.

By the way, I absolutely love what you've done with autumn!

Love,

Susan

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Copyright 2003 Susan Krushenick

What I Did Over Summer Vacation

DAY ONE:
I cleaned out the kids backpacks. I threw away three crinkled and ripped workbooks, 57 granola bar wrappers, 102 juice box straws, one torn mitten, seven stained, and mate-less socks, 972,000 crayon and pencil pieces, and one quarter. (When I was through, I realized the packs smelled like a school lavatory, so I threw those away too.)

DAY TWO:
I took my kids to the local swim hole. I packed the beach bag with two kinds of sunscreen-15 SPF for my son, and 6 SPF for my daughter and I, one magazine, three pairs of sunglasses, a box of bandages, a box of cheese crackers, one bag of potato chips, four turkey and cheese sandwiches and a gallon-size pitcher of lemonade. Then I loaded into the car with four beach towels, two beach chairs, a gazillion buckets and shovels and one gargantuan blow-up dolphin.

We got to the beach, set up camp and four minutes later, my daughter told me that she was bored and that she hated her little brother because "He is such a moron". I forgot the cups for the lemonade.

DAY THREE:
Same as Day Two, except Jackson threw sand in Torey's eyes after she called him "A gross little moron". I remembered the cups, but forgot the sandwiches.

DAY FOUR:
Same as Days Two and Three, except this time when Torey called Jackson a "smelly, disgusting moron", Jackson called her a big fat "effer" and then I had to jump in and tell him he may never use that word, even if he is only saying the first letter. Torey then laughed at Jackson for getting in trouble and I yelled at Torey for teasing Jackson, and Torey screamed at me for always taking "That little morons' side" and I said "That's it, we're going home." Which was really sad because I remembered to bring everything we needed.

DAY FIVE:
It rained. We were stuck in the house all day. I thought about flushing myself down the toilet.

DAY SIX:
Same as Days Two, Three, and Four, except this time, both kids brought a friend to the swim hole. Jackson's friend told me he could swim. Thank goodness for the man sitting next to me who worked as a lifeguard when he was in college. Torey and her friend played nicely with each other, taking turns using the blow-up dolphin. They also enjoyed taunting the boys with the dolphin by saying how much fun they were having with it and how they planned to use it ALL DAY. I promptly shoved the dolphin into the mini van and beached Torey and her friend until they learned how to treat others a bit more nicely.

DAY SEVEN:
Same as Days Two, Three, Four, and Six, except this time when Jackson clocked Torey in the head with a rock and she "hadn't" called him anything mean, I beached him until he could learn to behave more appropriately. He said, "You love Torey more than me" and then she said, "Shut up you Monkey-turd-moron" and then I said "I've had it and if the both of you don't stop it this instant we are packing up and going home where the both of you will spend the rest of the day in your rooms!"

Once again, I remembered to pack all the beach essentials, but really wished I had packed the six-pack of Corona that was sitting in my fridge.

DAYS EIGHT - SIXTEEN:
My husband and I took our kids to Cape Cod for a family vacation. I'm still not well enough to talk about it.

DAYS SEVENTEEN - SIXTY-FIVE:
Same as Days Two, Three, Four, Six and Seven, except, that for the remainder of the vacation, I left the dolphin behind, but always brought the Corona. I spent weeks listening to my cherubs yelling to each other, saying things like: "Get away from me butt-head, you're gross," and "If you say that again, I'm gonna throw this dead fish at you, " and "MOOOOOOOOOOM!"

I sipped my beer and fantasized about how good it would feel, if only I had the courage to bring along my Circulon frying pan so I could smack myself in the head with it three or four times a day.

DAY SIXTY-SIX:
I took the kids to the mall for some Back-to-School shopping. It was the happiest day of my life.

DAY SIXTY-SEVEN:
I planted huge smooches on each child's cheek and sent them on the school bus.

And that concludes what I did over my summer vacation. I can hardly wait until next year.

***********************************************
Copyright September 2003 Susan Krushenick

What Would Happen If...?

By Susan Krushenick

What if we believed everything we read? What would life be like if we followed all the rules, theories, and earnings imposed on us by the "Professionals"? What would one day of acquiescing to the do's and don'ts of perfect parenting and personal well-being look like? Join me, as I attempt to live one day according to the experts....

I wake at seven a.m. I feel a bit tired, probably because I slept seven and a half hours instead of the required eight. I immediately head for the coffee pot. Oops! I forgot. Coffee is a no-no because, say some medical experts, caffeine is addictive and the tannin found in coffee lowers the immune system. I put away the coffee and remember that somewhere deep in the back of my cabinet sits a box of organic seaweed tea given to me by a friend who is vegan.

I boil the water and place the natural-fiber, biodegradable tea bag into my cup. I pour the steaming water over the bag and oh-my-goodness everything is turning green and black and there are small particles beginning to swim around the surface. I can't say for sure, but I think this tea is sold in toy stores, only it's called Sea Monkeys. It smells nasty, most likely will taste even worse, but at least I'm not catering to an addiction, and I'm not ingesting tannin (whatever that is). I take my first swallow and begin to wonder where, exactly, is this seaweed farmed? Haven't bio-hazardous chemicals been dumped into three-quarters of the world's oceans? That's what the environmentalists said. Maybe these floaters aren't Sea Monkeys after all; maybe they are PCB-induced mutations of the fish formerly known as Jelly.

Yuck, I'm firing up the coffee pot. It's seven-fifteen and my two youngest children are awake and filing to the kitchen table. My sixteen-year-old is still sleeping, even though his alarm went off fifteen minutes ago and the buzz is beginning to drill a hole in my brain. I will not wake him, though. Nope, not me, I'm not going to be one of those parents who bails her child out of what is rightfully his responsibility, even if it means sticking my head in the toilet to drown the sound of the alarm.

My kids are hungry, so I grab their favorite cereal: Highly-Colored-Sugary-Something-Os. I can't believe I did that. I can't believe I nearly committed the worst of all nutritional sins. I forgot how terrible this stuff is for them, despite the fact that it is affordable and it does have some nutrients and they are eating breakfast. Quickly, I move to plan B. Okay, who wants oatmeal? No response. Who would like whole grain pancakes? Dead silence. Who wants all natural lightly toasted Kashi made with organic beekeeper honey and wheat nuts? Nothing, not one sound.

Forget this. I pour them both a bowl of candy bar crunch and saturate it with good old wholesome milk. Two percent, mind you, I'm keeping an eye on their fat intake. I sure hope this milk doesn't have any BSRTXYZ, or whatever that bovine stuff is.

My oldest is finally awake, dressed in clothing that looks like used aluminum-foil flattened out, and drinking orange juice straight from the carton. He's been labeled with ADHD and learning disabilities, so his clothing and table manners tend to take a backseat to other more pressing issues, like, where is the last place he recalls seeing his only pair of sneakers? I scroll down the list of his school needs (he found the sneakers). Do you have...what about...where is? He rolls his eyes at me and walks out the door. Freudian belief would say I am an over-involved mother who is damaging her son's psyche. Pop-psychologists would say I am Codependent AND an Enabler, who, because of my own serious dysfunctions, is keeping my son from learning how to become organized. ADHD experts would say I am doing the right thing by helping my son to achieve success in his life so he can feel good about himself.

I would say that I'm developing a major headache and the school bus is outside and I don't know which expert is right. All I know is that his social studies project, the one due yesterday, is sitting on the desk and he is halfway to the bus. Heck with it, I open the door and yell, "Hey, Sweetie Pie, you forgot your project..."

Oh. My. God. I went with the ADHD researchers and totally forgot about the socialization experts. Did I humiliate him in front of his peers? Will they call him a Momma's Boy? Have I ruined his life forever?

I wish I could soothe my frazzled nerves with a cigarette and a mocha latte. Unfortunately, the Surgeon General warns that cigarettes will turn my lungs black, give me every cancer known to human and beast, kill my children from second-hand smoke, give my dog and my fish emphysema, and make my clothes smell icky. What if I just tiptoe into the woods behind my house where no one will see me and -- Oh Shoot! I forgot about Smokey-the-Bear.

I pull myself together and help my two younger children gather their belongings, which by the way, is what I am supposed to be doing for children this age, say the early-childhood experts. I gather their backpacks and give my daughter a quick spelling drill for her test today. Educators like when I do this, it shows I have an active interest in my child's schooling. They say the more involved I am with my children, the better they will do in school. Of course, this theory fell flat on its face in regards to my son; my around the clock involvement did not seem to alter the red Fs on his spelling tests.

Nevertheless, many educators would agree that if my child fails, it is probably due to some fatal deficiency I have as a parent.

The spelling drill is over, I put snacks in their backpacks (and toothbrushes and toothpaste because you know what the dentists say) and shimmy the backpacks onto their backs. Hmmm...I recall hearing something about backpacks. Now what was that? Yes, that's right; the chiropractors say backpacks are harmful. Apparently, the weight of the pack places too much pressure on the spine, which then causes the spine to misalign itself, and a spine-out-of-line means lower back pain, lower energy, a lower immune system, possibly a lower IQ, and a lower bank account from all the adjustments needed to put that spine right back where it belongs.

But, without a sack of some sort to carry all their tools and materials, how will our children compete with the Japanese children? Without their packs, our children will become lost, disoriented, disorganized, uneducated, and destined to underachieve, thus, sending the entire United States economy spiraling downward into a third-world category. What if I bought them wagons?

Golly, it's only eight-thirty and I'm feeling overwhelmed, anxious, and emotionally-drained. If I didn't know better, I would say it's because of the morning I am having. But I do know better. I read an article yesterday about depression. I'm depressed. The checklist confirms it. I don't know why I'm depressed, though. Maybe it's because I live in a capitalist society where a person's value is based on how conspicuously she consumes. Perhaps my diet is the culprit: too much fat, not enough greens, way too many Milky Ways. Or, maybe it's because my parents destroyed my self-esteem by saying and doing things they shouldn't have, or possibly, they didn't say and do things they should have? Maybe it has nothing to do with my parents at all. Maybe, I'm genetically predisposed and my spine is out of whack. Maybe it was the seaweed tea. Maybe I should have slept the full eight hours. Maybe I am really suffering from sleep deprivation. Maybe I need to take a nap!

Ah, nothing like a good old-fashioned siesta to cure whatever ails you. I'm feeling pretty chipper and ready to handle phase two of the day, and here come the kids now.

My oldest, as usual, is the first one home. Like clockwork, he runs in the door, throws down his backpack and races to the bathroom. He told me he doesn't like to use the school lavatories, hence his dramatic entrance. I never thought much about his behavior, until today. I'm concerned. Some therapists suggest that pee-shyness may be a red-flag signaling abuse in one's childhood. In fact, I've read somewhere that some people who were abused refuse to use public restrooms because they believe the sound of their own tinkling makes strangers view them as dirty, which is how they really feel inside. Could this be my son's problem? Did something awful happen to him that I'm unaware of and now he feels worthless, dirty, ashamed? OH NO-I have an even worse thought.

What if Freud was right? What if boys DO need to detach from their mothers? What if Freud's Fear of Castration theory is correct and that's what is really going on here? What if my son runs in each day, takes one look at me, and suddenly thinks his penis fell off? What if he races to the bathroom to make sure his appendages are all present and accounted for? Maybe I shouldn't be here when he gets home from school. Maybe I should have chosen to work outside the home, which would limit how many times my son has to look at me and agonize over whether his plumbing is still intact.

I think I need another one of those naps.

On second thought, forget the nap. I give up. My younger kids are walking through the door and the last thing I want to do is tackle the issue of television. I'm pulling the plug on this nitwitted scheme before I start popping Prozac like they're Tic Tacs. From now on, I'm going to rely on my own sensibilities and stay away from all those experts who swear they know what is best for me and my family. I'm saying farewell to doctor office magazines, especially those with self-diagnosing checklists. Adios to nighttime news shows that begin with statements like, "Our hidden cameras uncovered something that is going to scare the hell out of you and make you never want to buy toilet paper again." Arrivederci to the latest in ground-breaking research; and good-riddens to self-help books.

But before I do, I just want to try one thing: Yesterday, after I read the article on depression, I read an article called 371 Ways To Get Him To Take Out The Trash.

Oh look, here comes the ole' Soul Mate now.

***********************************************
Copyright August 2003 Susan Krushenick

Operation Evacuation

Sponsored by the Secret Society for Parental Strategies

The following instructions are for the proper removal of waste, toxins, old food particles, dishes, dumb little toys from fast food restaurants, and other gross items that gravitate into the rooms of children. If followed correctly, you should feel a sense of productivity, cleanliness, and mastery over the "waste lands" in your home. Good luck, and may the Cleaning Force be with you.

Please read all warnings and cautions before attempting this operation. Failure to do so may result in you being forced to listen to the ravings and rantings of a child screaming, "Get out of my room!" "You can't throw that away!" "It's not fair!" And the ever popular, angry-child declaration of "I Hate You!"

WARNING: Operation Evacuation is not recommended for:

* Those with a weak gag reflex
* Pregnant women (six-months-or more, as you may get stuck under bed)
* Pack rats
* Those who cannot withstand the pressure of interrogations that begin with, "Have you seen my --?"
* Those who would answer "Have you seen my --?" with "I threw it away."

CAUTION:

DO NOT perform this procedure in the presence of anyone under 18-years-old.

Keep this information OUT OF REACH OF CHILDREN who can read.

FAILURE to follow all steps may result in "getting caught".

In the event of ACCIDENTAL EXPOSURE, deny everything and say, "I didn't mean to throw that away, I was simply tidying up a bit." Promptly terminate operation and resume in a few weeks when you are sure the coast is clear.

BEFORE YOU BEGIN:

To obtain optimal results you will need the following:

Econo-size box of lawn and leaf bags (Do not use clear plastic)

Heavy duty gloves (the type used for garbage collecting)

Surgical facemask

Vacuum with attachments and three spare bags

Phone numbers to Poison Control, Hazardous Waste, Game Warden, and Center for UFO
Sightings

Hospital strength disinfectant

Several cups of strongly brewed coffee

A Three hour block of time

OPERATION INSTRUCTIONS:

If you've read the above information and feel confident, you may begin following the step-by-step instructions.

Step 1: Give child a hug and kiss good-bye and remember to wave as the school bus disappears from sight.

Step 2: Suck down a minimum of two cups of coffee, gather equipment, and head for the room intended for evacuation.

Step 3: Using foot, kick away all debris, creating a pathway to the bed.

Step 4: Apply surgical mask and gloves.

Step 5: With garbage bag in hand, shimmy under the bed. (If anything moves, GET OUT QUICKLY and call the Game Warden and the Center for UFOs)

Step 6: Place in garbage bag the following: all things green and hairy, broken toys, small foreign objects that defy the human mind's capacity to make sense of what they might be, packaging of all varieties, ripped papers, all dolls-regardless of gender-who have suffered immeasurable amputations, every bit of Play Doh that has yucky stuff embedded in it, and anything else that appears to hold no value what-so-ever.

Step 7: Place all crusty dishes and milk-stained glasses in one pile and all dirty underwear, single socks, and the pantyhose (you've been looking for since last spring), in another.

Step 8: Attach hose to vacuum and in Rambo-style suck up all dust bunnies, dust buffalos, and anything you are afraid to touch even with gloves.

Step 9: Working clockwise around the room, continue the same search and destroy procedure you performed while under the bed.

Step 10: When all garbage and bacterially-infested objects have been removed from the area, vacuum thoroughly. *Remember that small pieces of lint and string may need to be picked up and dropped several times before vacuum sucks them up.

Step 11: Spray area with disinfectant.

Step 12: Remove surgical mask and gloves. Triple knot or twist tie all trash bags.

Step 13: Take all trash to dump, pronto! If this is not an option, hide all bags in trunk of car until trash day.

Step 14: Launder all soiled clothing, and depending upon your personality type, you may either soak the filthy dishes and glasses for a period of 1.3 years, or donate them to science.

Step 15: Every four minutes or so, compulsively step into the room to admire your work as well as the beautiful carpeting that surfaced once all the crap was gone.

___________________________________________________

CONGRATULATIONS! You've successfully completed Operation Evacuation.

Do you have a question, comment, or concern? Please feel free to write us at:

What A Pig Sty
123 It's Outta Here
Ain't Life Grand, VT 11111
Or
Call us toll free, Monday thru Friday 8-3
1-800-CHUCK IT

************************************************************
Copyright 2003 Susan Krushenick

Susan Krushenick graduated from Vermont College in June 2002. Her first published essay, "Are You A Candidate for Mother-of-the-Year?" appeared in the May issue of The Philosophical Mother, where she has since joined as a Regular Contributing Writer. Susan lives in Warren, Vermont with her husband and children.

Are You a Candidate for Mother-of-the-Year?

Are you in the running for Mother-of-the-Year? Take the quiz below and see how you fare.

THE QUIZ:

1. Your two-year-old son darts into the middle of the street the second you turn your head to lock the car. You:

A) Run after him, scoop him up gently, and then sit him down on the curb and say, "Gregory, honey, that was a very, very, very, naughty thing to do. You may never run into the street again, that is dangerous. You might have been hit by a car my little pumpkin."

B) Run after him, scoop him up, give him a shock-value thump on the rump and then tell him to never run into the street again.

C) Run after him, give thump on rump, and then apologize to him 400 times while crying and searching for your therapist's phone number because you just hit your child and now you think you are the worst mother in the history of the Universe and should never have had a child in the first place.

2. Keeping ourselves healthy is hard enough, but with all the warnings about nutrition, organic vs. non-organic, and child obesity, a trip through the grocery store can be arduous at best. You:

A) Buy only organic foods; you read each label and are aware of the caloric content as well as the carbohydrate, cholesterol, fat, and sodium content. You are pleased to say that your children have never eaten anything made with refined sugar, processed wheat, chemical food colorings, food additives or preservatives, and as a matter of fact, they've never stepped foot into a commercial grocery store.

B) You make an effort to buy organic vegetables and meats whenever possible. You're aware of some labels, but quite frankly, you simply don't have the time, energy, or resources to devote your life to this matter.

C) You'd rather not discuss it; you just returned from McDonald's where you ate a Quarter Pounder with Cheese super-sized extra value meal and then proceeded to finish off the left over fries and chicken nuggets that your children left behind when they went to play in the ball pit.

3. Your daughter comes home from school and begs you to allow her friends to sleep over-just
this once-on a school night. You tell her no because she must get to sleep early on a school night. She gives way to a high-pitched why noooooooot? You:

A) Sit her down and explain, again, how children need plenty of rest on school nights and if her friends were to sleep over they would all stay up far too late talking and giggling and then would be too tired to function properly the next day; besides, you have to get up for work in the morning and you don't want a house full of children. However, you tell her that she can have 100 girls sleep over on Friday or Saturday night if she would like.

B) You tell her, "BECAUSE I SAID SO and don't ask again!"

C) Stick a chopstick through your eyeball because going with response (A) means having to listen to repeated whines of why not until you finally breakdown and say yes just to shut her up, and resorting to the (B) response means sounding just like your mother, so the chopstick it is.

4. Your seven-year-old son loses his first tooth. Before going to bed he writes a note to the Tooth Fairy requesting a pack of Yu-Gi-Oh! game cards just like the ones she gave to his friend Sam last week when he lost his tooth. You:

A) Didn't know the Tooth Fairy was now giving gifts, so you kiss him goodnight, throw your jacket on over your nightgown and drive all over the tri-state area looking for a 24-hour Toys 'R' Us, praying you find one, otherwise, your son will wake in the morning feeling as though the Tooth Fairy loves Sam more than him.

B) Feel badly, but stick to your guns and toss a few bucks under his pillow; you refuse to get caught up in this trend.

C) You ask your son which of his friends receive gifts from the Tooth Fairy, then you grab a sack of potatoes and shove one spud into the exhaust pipe of each car owned by a parent who changed the Tooth Fairy rules.

5. Your oldest daughter, Becky, is turning eight next week. You:

A) Plan a bowling party and invite her entire third grade class so no one in the class feels left out. The bowling alley charges you ten-dollars per child, which provides you with two-hours of bowling, shoes, balls, a party room, pizza, cake, and soda. You purchase party bags for each child and fill them with candy, games, puzzles, whistles, bubbles, stickers, miniature playing cards, twisty straws, and plastic rings. You cringe just a tad when the bill comes to $300.

B) Plan a disco dance party in your home. You borrow a disco ball, make tons of food, and plan hours of dancing and games. You refuse to give party bags because you believe children need to learn how to give a gift without expecting one in return.

C) Bang your head against your office wall for you know, no matter which party you choose, the birthday girl is still going to cry midway through the party.

6. Your teenager wears black and listens to Marilyn Manson. You:

A) Demand all Manson posters come off his bedroom wall; puzzle over how to play a CD backwards in order to see if Marilyn is one of those devil worshippers; and swear this music is the cause of society's downfall.

B) Do nothing. In your high school senior year, you had a Mohawk and wore sixteen safety pins in your ears.

C) Spend sleepless nights trying to remember when it was exactly that Yanni and Neil Diamond made into your CD collection and wonder whether this means you're middle-aged or a just a geek.

============================================
RESULTS:

Okay, here's the fun part. Count up your answers and see if you qualify as Mother-of-the-Year.

Mostly (A): Lordy, lordy, I'm glad I'm not the only one who's allowed mainstream culture and pop
psychology to bamboozle me into thinking and behaving as though I am the offspring of a Stepford
Wife.

Mostly (B): Liar, liar, your pants are on fire! Come on, at least once, you've been a weenie and
second-guessed yourself or went with popular opinion.

Mostly (C): Yes, yes, I know. Parenting sure has a way of making our thoughts and emotions go
helter-skelter. But wouldn't it be fun to really use those potatoes?

So you're not Mother-of-the-Year material? Let's just call each other even and admit that we're all
doing the best that we can.

*********************************************
2003 Susan Krushenick

When Susan Krushenick was pregnant with her first child, she spent every second of every day fantasizing about how perfect a mother she would be, so perfect in fact, she thought books would be written about her and documentaries be made. Then she gave birth.

Susan graduated from Vermont College in June 2002. Recently, she was selected to participate in the Vermont Artist's Week residency program, which is sponsored by the Vermont Studio Center. This is her first published essay.