Laugh, or laugh not. There is no cry.

My therapist suggested I write a blog. 

Okay, she's not actually MY therapist. She's my daughter's behavior therapist. The suggestion came in an email, where Dr. Awesome sent me a link to story from another mom's blog, which was *super hilarious* and prefaced it by saying, "I know comic relief is often therapeutic, and judging by most of our sessions, I gather you probably feel the same way!" and then closed out the email with, "Once we can get you more than 5 minutes in front of your laptop without any interference, you totally need to write your own blog to keep it real too!" (Read: no pressure at all.) 

If I didn't love this woman almost more than I love my own mother and my husband combined, I may have received this suggestion like a back-handed slap. Firstly, because who likes to be told by a medical professional that their problems are funny enough to share with the entire group? But the truth is, we do spend most of our sessions laughing. I mean really laughing. Sometimes she has to break out the asthma inhaler and I start to feel a little guilty for trying to kill her (and a little proud of myself for being such a comic genius without even trying). Secondly, because when am I ever going to get "5 minutes in front of my laptop without any interference"?? I think that part was probably meant to be her own little joke. I mean, sure, we are working on it. In fact, that's probably the largest, most immediate goal of our therapy sessions. However, she, of all people should know that unless I want to wait until midnight and skip a shower, that's NOT going to happen for a pretty long time. 

But, I love our doctor and I know she loves me and wants me to be happy. And, I think she's probably right. It probably wouldn't hurt to put some of this out there (it's better than swallowing it down and processing it into ulcers, after all). But in lieu of alone time with my laptop, I'm actually writing this now with Olivia blaring in the background and my daughter physically attached to my hip. I've had to start and stop half a dozen times so she can watch the same YouTube video over and over and over (and over and over and over) again. Apparently some genius strategically set clips from Spongebob Squarepants to the Black Eyed Peas song "Boom Boom Pow".... I'll have to write him a Thank You note and offer him some more constructive suggestions for how he can use his time. 

Lorelai, my three-year-old (yes, she's three, so that should be enough of a challenge, right?!?!?) is not only equipped with a healthy diva complex (I have NO idea where the hell she gets that), but also happens to have PDD-NOS, a pretty severe anxiety disorder, and, if all that weren't enough, she's smarter than I am. She and her brother are skillful little Jedi and my daily struggle is not to be bested by my younglings. The "attached at the hip" thing is one of the main reasons (not the only reason by far, but one of the main reasons, certainly) that we visit Dr. Awesome. My daughter has decided that the only way to be happy is to be on me. Seriously. ON me. If she could do that thing where you lay feet to feet and hand to hand and have every inch of her touching every inch of me she probably would. And that's on a "good" day. On what I like to affectionately refer to as one of her more autistic days, she'd crawl all the way back up into my womb if she could find the way. 

Now, maybe it's a case of being "careful what you wish for." My son never had this problem. Johnny, who is 6, never had a "Mommy" phase. He has never wanted me "most" - except maybe the first few mornings at daycare but even then it was a quick recovery followed by a MOM-PUHLEEZE-you're-embarrassing-me-face any time I wanted a kiss goodbye, which, in a 2.5 year old, is both impressive and depressing. In fact his preferred "drugs of choice" have always been Grandma and Grandpa and I have come to find that I will always play third fiddle (Dad plays second fiddle, but I understand that, Dad is cool as hell). Let's face it, they're more fun than I am. I like their house better, too. It's like somebody took all the best food in the store, transplanted it into an arcade and then mixed in two thirds of a Toys-R-Us. Who can compete with that? Besides, I've convinced myself to look at the positive side here; without any of those pesky "mother issues" the odds are very slim that he'll end up in my basement until he's 35. Right?!

But, like any mom and true perfectionist, I like to be the best. So when my little princess came along and clearly preferred me to just about anything else, including breathing, I thought it was endearing and sweet and used to brag about how awesome I must be for her to love me SO much. Then it got kind of scary. When they're babies and they are breast feeding, fine. But it eventually got to a point where I would not have been surprised in the least to find her breath and teeny hand prints on the glass outside my bedroom window. No mom expects to go to bathroom alone, EVER, but you would think you could at least do it without having someone else on your lap. True story.

So, I go to Dr. Awesome. I word-vomit all my troubles at her, then she sifts through the spaghetti nonsense and tries to help teach me the ways of the Force and how to ultimately conquer my children and keep my title as the Master Jedi in my own home. At the very least I'm hoping for enough skills to mitigate the dysfunction. She gives me these really awesome, Supernanny-esque tips on how to run my children and my home, then Lorelai finds the loop holes and we have to start over. My constant defeat at the hands of my genius children (I know, every mom thinks her kids are geniuses, but seriously, ask the doctors, my kids really are, especially the tiny one) is a great learning tool for everyone involved, but also the source of some richly dark comedy.

Well, let's be frank, as moms we have two choices; we can laugh or we can cry. It's often times a very fine line between the two, which is what makes the comedy so dark. If you're willing to, however, laughing about it is so much more fun, and if we're being honest, people would much rather be around you when you're laughing than when you're bitching so it seems like the obvious choice... even if the laughing often sounds maniacal. 

So, I am taking Dr. Awesome's advice and inviting you to laugh with me. I welcome your own stories and anecdotes about parenting and I hope we can all have a good laugh together at each other's expense. 

Love, Jedi Mom.