Be Happy or I'll Scream! My Deranged Quest for the Perfect Husband, Family, And Life

Chapter One T.R.A.P. I knew I was beaten on the day I finally admitted to myself that I was using the dog as a vacuum cleaner. "Get on over here, Champ!" I'd wearily bellow, hardly pausing to watch as our elderly and almost completely daft French bulldog lapped up whatever rice, peas, Cheerios, or raisins the baby had flung around the kitchen. It was a job that required some supervision, though far less effort than reaching for the Hoover: "You missed a spot right here, buddy." Sometimes I'd even help him halfway up onto her seat so that he could pry loose any morsel that might have wedged itself between the bottom of her booster and the chair. It was slovenly and gross, and I knew it. Of course I knew it. I could even feel my clean freak mother's disapproval clear across two thousand miles and three time zones. But I was tired, so tired, too tired to care, much less worry about some dog saliva and a few stray elbow noodles. Three kids, a husband, and a full-time career had lowered my standards to depths I never thought possible. In the span of a few short years, I'd been transformed from an anal-retentive, obsessive nutcase into a who-cares-as-long-as-we-don't-have-bugs obsessive nutcase. Which I guess counts as progress, or will have to, since there's no going back. I've poured my energy---the energy I might have used for cleaning, serious volunteering, learning a new craft, or at least doing Pilates---into a crazy experiment. One that I realized probably wasn't working out all too well on the evening I caught a glimpse of myself looking haggard and crazy-woman sloppy in the sunglasses department at Wal-Mart. While my husband tried on new shades, I stood clutching a package of Dora The Explorer underpants for our three-year-old, and numbly watched as our one-year-old gnawed on the metal arm of a tipsy display rack. Part of my brain screamed, Germs! Oh my God! Germs! Exposed metal! Danger! Danger! Danger! But the rest of that soggy organ slyly whispered, Ah. She's not crying. Excellent. Why not enjoy a minute here to yourself? ...Which is precisely what I did, staring bug-eyed off into the middle distance, half-listening to the chatter of my family, and the murmurs of my passing fellow Wal-Martians. That's when my husband's righteously disbelieving voice sliced into my dazed reverie like a knife. "WHAT are you chewing? Mommy! Hello? Hello? Do you see what your baby is doing? THAT'S not too disgusting! Here!" Thwomp! He dumped the baby into my arms, her face screwed up in rage and disappointment. I knew that we had only seconds before the now-building scream would tear loose from her throat---shrill, deafening, insane. Whipping a colorful, trendy, pediatrician-approved teething device from my bag, I waved it at her, a gesture rich in both hope and futility. Furious, she knocked it out of my hand. More screaming. Sensing an opportunity, our three-year-old sidled up. "Mommy, can I please have some Skittles?" She nodded her head "yes" while asking, hoping to hypnotize me into granting her request. "No Skittles," I answered firmly, still convinced that I might yet pull off the whole calm, reasonable, I'm-in-charge-here parenting charade. "You've already had a treat." My husband was now swabbing out the baby's mouth with a Wet One, an indignity that only slightly muffled her roaring. "But I want some Skittles!" Olivia barked. "You have to give me some Skittles!" Furious that her demands were being ignored, Olivia then upped the ante to full-blown hysteria. Inspired, the baby lustily joined in. Stereo shrieking. Shooting me a look of purLynch, Sheri is the author of 'Be Happy or I'll Scream! My Deranged Quest for the Perfect Husband, Family, And Life', published 2007 under ISBN 9780312342340 and ISBN 0312342349.