Have you ever let your child do something you knew was wrong? Well, not “wrong” per se, but not “right,” necessarily, either? Perhaps you’ve allowed him to pull out all of the tissues from a box of Kleenex because it was just so darn cute? Or maybe you’ve encouraged him to turn the lamp in the spare bedroom on and off and on and off and on and off even though he’d probably, eventually pull the entire lamp over? Or maybe you let him chew on the drink menu at East Side Mario’s just because it kept him quiet for a few blessed minutes while you made a feeble attempt to enjoy your $14.99 dish of pasta? I know I’m not alone on this one.

The other day while shopping I picked out a treat for Graham. He loves chorizo sausage so when I found some cured chorizo in among the pepperettes and other cured meats I knew he’d love it. I had no idea, however, just how much Nate would appreciate the package. He reached into the basket in the shopping cart and began to chew the package of sausage.

The angel on one shoulder told me that dirty hands touched that package, and that I shouldn’t let Nate touch it, let alone chew on it. The devil on the other shoulder told the angel to pipe down, a few germs wouldn’t kill him, and besides, the package of sausage made a perfect teether.

Who do you suppose won out in the end?

When I came home I asked my friends if I was a horrible mother for letting Nate chew on a sealed plastic package of cured meat. Their response was a resounding, “Hell no,” accompanied by some classic moments in their own mothering.

Candy.

Booze.

There isn’t a vice these Aiming Low kids haven’t gotten into. What inappropriate parenting moments have you captured on film? (Bonus points if you provide us with a link to your own photos!)

With the summer winding down, pools are closing, temperatures are becoming more bearable, and vacationers are returning home.  Soon the leaves will start turning and there will be a smell of fall in the air.  This can mean only one thing.

Back to school, bitches!

I have a love/hate relationship with back to school time.   I LOVE that my kids get their structured scheduled life back that includes appropriate bedtimes, waking times and homework as opposed to their summer activity of  trying to murder each other over the last Zinger while watching 24 hour marathons of Sponge Bob and iCarly.  It’s just a bonus that all of this happens with them out of the house for 8 hours a day!

Summer is NOT a vacation for moms.  I repeat, summer is NOT a vacation for moms.  Kids are high maintenance, loud, and need to be entertained.  That messes with catching up on DVR’d episodes of Weeds and Entourage in the afternoon  (see, I’m a good mom, I don’t watch that crap when my kids are around!) I love that with kids back in school,  I get a little “me” time back in my schedule.

Along with the joy of sending the kids back to school and finally being able to regain some of my hearing from all the screams of “I hate you” and “you’re the worst mom-ever” summer conversations over glasses of iced tea, back to school also has its bittersweet moments.

And by moments, I mean, hours upon hours of scouring Target and Wal-Mart for school supplies.

Holy Mother of God, school supplies. I’m sure, somewhere, there has been the death of an  innocent woman simply trying to get rid of her kids for the school year by arming them with the necessary supplies.   “Necessary supplies” is the key here.  It  should include a pencil, some paper and maybe a burlap sack to carry it in like Laura Ingalls.  But, like everything else in the world, school supplies have been painfully complicated by time and overindulgent lifestyles!

I ask you, what does one 3rd grader do with 48 sharpened pencils, 12 glue sticks,  5 Sharpies (one in each size/color), and a BOX of dry erase markers?

And don’t even get me started on… (2) double rolls of Bounty paper towels, (2) 260 count boxes of Kleenex (that, by the way, do NOT exist),  Ziploc gallon size freezer bags, Ziploc sandwich sized bags, (2) containers Huggie’s baby wipes and (5)-FIVE containers of Clorox Wipes.   Are they going to school or becoming custodians?

And notice all the name brands?  All the pricey name brands that I don’t even buy for my OWN home since I’m cheap and broke.  Haven’t they ever heard “you get what you get and you don’t throw a fit” like I tell my kids when they get pissy with the imitation Mac and Cheese that I serve them!

I wanna know…what back to  school supplies do you have to buy for your kids that makes your head want to explode?

I love my children. I tolerate yours. Sometimes.

When I take my girls to the neighborhood pool, I go to make sure they’re not drowning, they’re having fun, and they’re not bothering other people. It’s kind of that oath of parental responsibility we imaginarily signed when we pushed out the babies from our nethers.

Apparently, I was the only one thinking this yesterday when I took my girls swimming.

We’d been at the pool for at least 20 minutes or so, and I was helping my girls remember how to swim since it was basically their first time back in the pool since last fall. We picked the side of the pool away from the sunbathers so as not to disturb them.

After we “established” our side of the pool as our base, another mom with her two kids arrived. They stepped into another side of the pool, thus establishing that side as their base. It’s pretty much the basic rule of public places: I got here, I put down my stuff, this is my space until more people show up and I may have to scootch down or share my space. Otherwise, stick to your space.

The second the little girl, who seemed to be about six years old, stepped into the pool, she made a beeline for our side. Like, getting all up in our bidness. Swimming through us, splashing us, and taking my girls’ toys. OH, yes she did.

The mom was in the pool, too, playing with the toddler, but said nothing to her girl who was now interfering with our swimming. But really, that didn’t matter, because the mom lasted all of about nine and a half minutes in the pool with her kids.

Mom gets out of the pool and dries herself off. Normally, NO problem if she’s going to stay by the pool to watch the kids, right? EXCEPT, she leaves to be under the bathroom hut, sitting behind bushes so as to obstruct her view of the pool.

Essentially, SHE LEFT HER KIDS IN THE POOL ALONE WITH A STRANGER.

Yes, apparently, I was her new babysitter, so mama could get her smoke on.

No amount of my “Excuse me’s” or mom-perfected glaring or expressions of, “Where’s your mama?” got her attention to get her kids out of our space and playing with our toys and splashing me in the face.

I’m not errrr… try not to be a judgmental person, but when you leave your six-year-old and two-year-old in swimmies in the pool while you go behind the bushes to sit at a table to read your book and have your smokes, YOU ARE NOT A GOOD MOTHER.

My friend Mandi asked me recently, as many, MANY people do, “Why stop with just two children?”

My answer, “ARE YOU EFFING KIDDING? ARE YOU INSANE? I CAN BARELY HANDLE THE TWO I HAVE NOW AND YOU WANT TO KNOW WHY I WOULDN’T WANT MORE?”

Patrick and I knew from the very beginning of our years of wedded bliss as a child bride that we’d be done with 2 kids. We’re both from small families, and both of us have 1 younger bratty, bitchy sister. (If they weren’t so much alike, they’d be best friends.)

Growing up, I used to tease my sister about being the unwanted sister. My parents tried for FOUR WHOLE YEARS to have me, and then after they had the beautiful, perfect child (ME), they wanted to wait a few years to have another. Unfortunately for them, so my teasing would go, my sister decided to come on her own time and be born just 18 months after I was born.

She was a “mistake” as I liked to remind her.

What goes around, comes around.

As Patrick and I planned to have our second, we wanted to have her (and she HAD to be a “her”) 2 years after Anna.

As our luck would have it, Claire decided to come on her own time, born just 18 months after Anna was born.

Do you see a pattern?

My 2nd baby was born 6 months early. (I like to tell people that just to see their reaction.) If we weren’t already set on having another so close to our first, we would have had a joint heart attack.

I had a 10 month old baby and was 1 month pregnant with my 2nd. THAT? Is hard work.

But I wouldn’t have had it any other way. My girls are best friends. They play together, read together, fight together.

We do things back-to-back with the girls. They potty-trained 6 months apart. Their speech progressed to just 4 months apart. They’ll be 2 years apart in school.

I can’t imagine adding another baby into their mix.

It’s just not in my scope of thinking.

This was OUR decision to have Patrick’s nuts disconnected from his weenis when Claire was just 3 weeks old. We made DAMN sure we weren’t going to have an “oops” baby.

If you have more than 2, or just have 1, or have none, or have 17, GOOD FOR YOU. I applaud you for having the energy, mental capacity, and emotional stability to handle more than what I have under my roof and peeing in my bed.

I still get my fill of wee babies with my sister and sister-in-law and birthin’ friends. I also get to sleep through the night after I give the baby back to its mama and daddy. I also don’t have to change another diaper unless it’s by choice.

They’re so much cuter when they’re not yours and you don’t want any more.

WE DON’T NEED NO MORE STINKIN’ BABIES.

But I will take a teacup Chihuahua or 2.

Remember the Breakfast Club?

Those archetypes of cinematic goodness?

Totally spot on.

Also, they persist throughout life to a certain extent. Particularly in the realms of preschool-classroom-parents.

• You have the room mom who always remembers to get things done, organizes the school fairs and classroom cleanups and plans adorable flower-giving for the teacher’s birthdays.
• You have the always-in-a-hurry working mom who doesn’t know anyone else’s names and carefully avoids the sign-up sheet.  (That was me last year when I worked outside the home.)
• You have the allergy-and-illness-conscious mom who encourages the director to send home weekly reminders that hand washing is good and germs are bad, mmm’kay.
• And then you have me. The mom who sends her child to school in his pajamas on the wrong day because she can’t read a fucking calendar.

Yeah, that’s me.  I think they’re probably keeping a file on me to see if I break existing records for not-quite-hilarious hi-jinks of epic disorganization.

On class picture day we rushed out the door a few minutes late, as usual. My son and I bickered in the school bathroom while he took forever to wash his hands. “I don’t want to wash my hands, IT’S TAKING A LONG TIME.” “IT’S TAKING A LONG TIME BECAUSE YOU ARE WHINING INSTEAD OF WASHING YOUR HANDS JUST WASH THEM JUST WASH YOUR HANDS PLEASE JUST WASH YOUR HANDS.” We got to the classroom and I noticed lots of polo shirts and dresses. My son? Batman tee shirt, cargo shorts, messed-up hair in serious need of a trim.

On the teacher’s birthday I forgot a flower for her. My son ended up giving her one lonely pink flower from a classmate’s impressive bouquet.

Two weeks ago I failed to bring the special snack I’d signed up for. So I rushed back out of the school to Sweetbay only to discover that they didn’t carry any green cookies. Instead, I picked up vanilla wafers and green icing. (Luckily, those were a hit.)

Then on the surprisingly early Easter party day I forgot the plastic eggs with toys and rushed to Walgreens to get a dozen plastic eggs and a bunch of shockingly heinous animal tattoos to stuff them with in the front seat while the baby complained in the back seat.

Most recently, my all time moment of aiming low (so far) was sending my son to school on Wednesday in his super, super cute Lightning McQueen pajamas. I smiled to myself as we walked out of the house. Good thing I looked at the calendar for once and saw that it was Waffle Party week and I needed to dress him in PJ’s and have him bring his favorite stuffed animal and bring a box of waffles which I fortunately had in my freezer! How embarrassing would it have been if I’d sent him to school without the right outfit! Right??

Well the party was on Friday, not Wednesday. Every mom we bumped into gave me that look. You know the one. Sort of a mixture of pity and amusement and boy I’m glad that’s not me.

I’m pretty much here to make other school moms look more organized, cleanly and punctual.
(But lemme tell you, on Friday? My son looked adorable in his pajamas. And as a bonus, I’d already brought my special waffle snacks on Wednesday. That’s right, early.)

Which classroom mom are you? No judgment if you’re the class mom field trip organizing badass, because seriously, I wish I had my shit together.

[Image credit: Everett Collection]

This year, this mother of two aims to do less. My kids don’t really appreciate what I do anyway, so why not save myself the trouble? Less time on THEM means more time on ME. (Hey, maybe I’ll finally find time to use that Wii Fit all the cool kids are talking about nowadays.) So, here is my list of how I plan to dumb it down in 2010.

First, the obvious ones…

–Less Cleaning Up. I’m tired of picking princess figurines up off the floor. So, any toy not put away gets thrown away. (Take that, producers of A&E’s Hoarders!)

–Less Cooking. This means more frozen food and increasingly frequent trips to McDonald’s. Also, I now believe that tater tots count as a vegetable serving.

–Less Laundry. Has it been worn three times? Until then, don’t even think about putting it in the laundry basket. Just consider that stain a quaint reminder of a previous meal.

And, some not-so-obvious ones…

–Less Entertaining. Some days, I host a three-ring circus in order to keep my kids happy, fulfilled, and content. It’s exhausting. Well, this ringmaster is done. Yo Gabba Gabba! and Spongebob can take over.

–Less Interfering. Ohhhh, I hear a fight brewing over a toy. Normally, I would jump in and referee, but now I’m just going to turn the TV up a little louder. Work it out amongst yourselves!

–Less Scheduling. No more class this and lessons that. I’m tired. (Not to mention the gas I waste.) So, learn it at home or don’t learn it at all. Either way, I’ll be on the couch.

–Less Volunteering. There’s a never-ending revolving door of activities happening at school. Whether it’s a book fair, fundraiser, or class project, I’m out. Don’t ask me to get involved. I’m far too busy catching up on my favorite TV shows.

–Less Lying. It’s time to get real. It takes a lot of energy to come up with reasons why I don’t want to play musical chairs or go to the park. From now on, “Mommy doesn’t feel like it” will become a valid answer.

–Less Micro-Managing. Don’t want to brush your teeth? No problem. You want to wear a bathing suit in January? Okay. No arguments here. Instead of bossing them around, I’m going to let the kids run their own railroads for a while.

–Less Coddling. Life is hard. Learn it now. You won’t always get your way and it’s not fair. So, nut up, already!

And, now, for a cocktail….

We like moms who admit to wanting to aim less and low in twenty-ten…and moms who end their posts talking about cocktails. Heh. You can see more of Jodi’s plans for this year over at her site Daily Dose of Common Sense.

I love artwork. I come from two sets of parents who essentially wallpaper their homes with art. They are lovers of every genre. They’ve got rooms filled with abstract paintings, rooms with both expressionist and impressionist art. Picasso, Chagall, Matisse, Renoir, Seurat, Warhol,  Vermeer, Cassatt, Van Gogh, Monet, Gauguin, Dali, Cezanne, Rockwell, Adams, Agam.

I have an appreciation for good art. But, I KNOW that beauty really is in the eye of the beholder. My dad has paintings in his house that I beg to be put in his will, and there are paintings in his house that I beg to be taken off the wall.

(And we will not even talk about the picture hanging on the wall at my mom’s house. The one from my bat mitzvah. The one where I’m not smiling and I’m filled with too much angst and bershon. The one that I remove from the wall each time I visit. The one that miraculously makes it back onto it’s primo spot on the wall just in time for my next visit. We are NOT going to talk about that)

Remember this little number?

Yeah, me too. *shudder*

Well, naturally, because I like art, I always notice what’s on the walls in other homes. Well, today was no different. I took Emily to her recording debut. It’s actually kind of just as exciting as it sounds. She was actually into a recording studio singing her little heart out today. I won’t tell you what it did to her mother’s heart. My little girl, repeating the lines to “With a Little Help From My Friends” until she got it just right. And the sound? It was stunning. I couldn’t believe that something that came out of ME (my Native American name is actually ‘tone deaf’) could produce something that pleasing to the ear. She has talent, that child.

But, while I was soaking in all of her musical glory, I was checking out the walls of the recording studio.

And then I stopped.

And then I died.

WHAT. THE. WHAT???!?!?

I really didn’t know what to do, other than slap a blindfold over my 8-year-old daughter’s eyes.

And take a picture, of course. This makes the picture of the 12-year-old Ali bershon look a little less frightening.

A couple years ago, over the Christmas holiday, the silent invasion began.   One turned into two, two turned into four, four turned six, then nine, twelve, and so on, and so forth.   Sure the invasion was innocent enough, at first, but soon we were taken over by the sheer magnitude of their forces.     What invasion do I speak of?  The Webkinz invasion, of course; the bane of my very existence.

Oh, sure, they’re so cute and cuddly and sweet.  Oh, sure, they come to life when you enter the magic code online.  Oh, sure, they provide the kids with a computer world full of fun.   Whatever!  They are kiddie crack.  The have a way of making the kids crave more, and more, and more.  One’s not enough. Hell, twenty’s not even enough.   Now, no matter what room I enter I am accosted by these delightful yet menacing stuffed creatures.   Seriously, there are no less than fifty in our 1700 square foot house.

I reiterate:  The bane of my existence!

Let’s do some math:

$12.50 (the cost of these suckers) x 50 (I’m rounding here for math purposes) = $625.00

Oh My God in Heaven Above!  That’s SIX HUNDRED TWENTY FIVE DOLLARS that have been spent on stuffed animals.   Seriously?  Seriously.

And now there’s a new addiction:  The Signature Webkinz (read: the slightly bigger, golden tagged, more expensive version of the regular ones)

My daughter?  Totally addicted, by-the-way.  If she could have her way, every single cent she got would go to Webkinz (and Bakugan, but that’s an entirely different post.)

Recently my mother sent the kids Halloween cards with $20.00 in each.

“Mama, Mama, can we please use our money from Baba on Webkinz!” Benny pleaded.

“Yeah, Mama, can we?  There’s a new Signature Calico Cat that I realllllllllllly, reallllllllllly want,” Olivia chimed in.

“Ugh, I guess,” I moaned.

“I’m saving my money,” Mikey proudly stated while his siblings ran off squealing about the new additions they’d soon be acquiring.

A couple days later I piled the little fiends into my van and drove them to the nearest dealer.

“Excuse me, sir,” Olivia politely asked the store keeper as she approached the counter, “can you tell me if you have a Signature Calico Cat?”

“Oh, yes we do, but someone stole the tag from it.  I’m sorry,” he said as he pointed to the stuffed animal on the shelf, that was so close, yet so far away.

She was crushed.

Not Benny, though.  He totally found the ones he wanted.  Littlekinz.  Yeah, apparently they have babies, too.

For the next two days all I heard was whining and crying about a Calico Cat that was right there but some stupid person had to go and steal the tag, and why did they have to steal the tag just because she wanted it, and why-oh-why is she being punished for someone else being greedy and selfish.   For. two. whole. days.  The bane of my existence, I swear!

Then it dawned on me!

“Livey, you only have $20.00.  The Signature Webkinz are $30.00.  You don’t even have enough money for one.” I gloated.

“But, Mama, Mama, please!  Can you give me the $10.00 I need?” she begged.

“I don’t think so, Liv.  Times are tough.  We need that money to buy saltine crackers and ramen noodles.” I lamented.

“Stop it, Mama.  Please, I’lllllll dooooooo annnnnnnyyyyyythiiiiiiing,” she cried, as I paused and put my finger to my chin with my gears cranking in over-time.

Meet Hazel.  She’s not a Calico Cat, she’s a Cocker Spaniel, but she’s still a Signature Webkinz.   Hazel is now the queen of all the Webkinz at Casa Lane.  She’s really cute and she’s a good queen, not a bad queen, and all the other lowly Webkinz and Littlekinz love and abide by her.

The only reason she’s here is because of Olivia’s plea.  And child labor.

She’s here because:

–>My van’s getting detailed, inside and out.

–>The changing of the closets will be a lot easier with a helper.

–>All the beds will be fixed for the next month by a ten year old girl.

If I say, “Jump!”  Olivia’s gonna say, “How high?”

Because that’s how this Mama rolls, yo!

Mwahahhahahahhahahahahha!

I think maybe—just-maybe—I have found a way to win this battle!

I can’t quite remember where we were going, but I remember that Davey was napping and the kids were having some reading time. I think we were going to co-op. Yeah, that’s it; we were going to co-op, but I digress.

The kids were all on the couches, reading, and I was upstairs getting ready. All of a sudden I heard someone running up the stairs. I peeked out of my bathroom and it was Mikey.

“Mama! This is the most disgusting book in the whole wide world!”

“What is it, Mikey?”

“I don’t know? Some book that BENNY took out from the library. It’s disgusting and you should take it back and tell them to never let anyone rent it again!”

“Mikey. It can’t be that bad. What’s the title?”

“My Mom’s Having a Baby and it’s disgusting. Come and see!” {puking sounds}

At this point I was a little worried about what I was going to find in this “My Mom’s Having a Baby” book. I followed Mikey to the living room.

“Mama,” Livey said, “Benny got this book out and it’s kinda gross. Here. Read it!”

Benny innocently said, “I just took it out because you had a baby and I thought I’d like it!”

I took the book and started flipping through the pages. The book was about a girl named Elizabeth and how you couldn’t tell by looking at her mom, but inside her was a little tiny baby growing. How her mom ate good food for the baby.  How she took care of their health by going to a doctor every month. Yadda, yadda, yadda.   Then one night Elizabeth wonders, “how did that baby get in Mom’s tummy?”

Enter gross. Enter disgusting. Enter Mishelle’s gonna have some explaining to do.

My face grew red hot. I closed the book carefully, went to the table, picked up my cell phone, said I’ll be right back, and went out the front door to call Michael.

“Dude. Our kids just found out how babies are made?”

“How?”

“A book!”

“A book?”

“Yes, a freakin’ book! Benny took out a book from the library called “My Mom’s Having a Baby” and IT. SHOWS. EVERYTHING.”

“Everything?”

“Yes, everything! Like, my mom and dad love each other so much that, at night, they cuddle and kiss, under the covers, naked, and then my dad’s penis goes into my mom’s vagina and a GOOEY liquid comes out and that’s how he knocks her up. Yes. Totally explicit. What do I do?”

“They told it like that?”

“Well, not exactly, but you know?! They even had hearts coming up from the mom and dad. THE DAD WAS ON TOP, YO!  Seriously. They so know.”

“Well, you’re gonna have to go in there and tell them about it now.”

“I know, I know.”

I hung up with the guy who put his penis into my vagina on more than one night and trudged back into the house.

I sat down. And sighed, “Guys. I wanna talk to you about that book.”

“What book?” Mikey asked.

“The book you thought was disgusting. Look, that book talks about the way babies are made. I just want to talk to you about it to see if you have any questions. Because, that’s how a baby IS made.”

“REALLY?”
“Are you sure?”
“Mama, tell the truth!”

“No guys, really,” and I continued to tell them about the love mamas and papas have for each other, and the love they make, and the biology of it all, and the penis and the vagina, and how you have to be much, much, MUCH older to have [sex].

“Do you guys have any questions?”

Mikey and Livey shook their heads no.

Benny however looked at me, cocked his head to the side, and said, “Mama, are you really telling the truth? Is that how a baby gets inside of a mom?”

“Yes, Benny, it’s true! All true.”

“Ugh. Mama. Couldn’t you just lie to us? That’s just SO disgusting.”

This was originally posted at Secret Agent Mama on January 15th, 2009.

I have since had another–more in depth–talk with my children, all because of the movie “17 Again”.   It just goes to show that not only should you* monitor the books your kids check out at the library, but you should also preview the movies they watch first, too.  Or simply watch the movie with them.  That way when questions come up you can answer them.   So what if you are red faced and sweating a little?   I mean, your daughter’s got underarm hair and your son is wearing deodorant and thinking girls are cute instead of gross and all cutie-ridden.  They’re growing up, you old woman you!

*you = me but might also be YOU!

When I was pregnant with my second child, I wondered how having two children would shake up the relationship I had with my son. Other parents expressed their concerns, the worry they’d felt while pregnant. But I rarely felt particularly worried for long. (This is unusual for me.)

This month, their personalities have really divulged. They’re starting to acknowledge each other. They interact without me in the equation. And when either of them needs me, they need me in wildly different ways. A come do a puzzle with me or a bumped chin and an empty belly. A short conversation about planets or ten minutes at the breast.

So this weekend I took each boy on a Mama-date. (Actually, Chipmunk got two of them.)

I brought the baby to one of his baby-friend’s first birthday parties. As soon as I set him down he started toddling around the yard. Then he sat in the grass and picked grass and threw grass and ate dirt and bumbled and buzzed from person to person and under the tables and chairs until he was filthy from head to hand-me-down Robeez’d toes.

I made comparisons in my head. His brother hated being dirty. His brother walked about three weeks later. His brother wasn’t quite as cheerful and outgoing. His brother loved cuddling and reading books more. Not better-thans but different-thans.

We stagger-walked back to the car after the party, his sweaty-small baby hand in mine.

I took the big boy shopping at the mini-mall across the street. We stopped into TJ Maxx and he said, “I love fluffies. And I love babies. I love all the things in my world, Mama.” A woman overheard him and smiled. On the way back to the car I said, “Well, we’ll get your costume another day. I forget where the party store is.” And he stopped and looked up at me and said, “Mama, it’s right next to Target.” So we went to party city and bought him his Woody hat and vest and star.

On Sunday I took him to a cheap diner down the street for breakfast-for-lunch. When the waitress walked up he said, “I want pancakes!” We flipped through the pie menu and ate our breakfasts and went and got him a haircut on the way home. He sucked on a cherry lollipop while an elderly woman trimmed his hair short and made him look achingly older.

The baby burrows his cold nose in my neck and chews on my shirt. My big boy squeezes his long, skinny arms around my neck and says, “Let me kiss your ear!”

They chase each other around and screech and squeal. Sometimes it feels like they’re playing tug-o-war with my soul. Then I feel like I’m squeezed between the two of them, gasping for air. It’s exhilarating, drowning like this.