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I'm going to admit something to you, I judge people.Yes, I do it.If someone tells me something that they do with their kid that I (personally) wouldn't do with mine, I judge them. Now, I'm not a complete asshole. I don't do it out loud. But I do it, internally.I blame society.Look, I live in a neighborhood where I walk down the street, and random strangers will shout out parenting "advice" to me. These people think that they have the right to tell me how to parent my child. They are blatantly judging me.We live in a society that condones judgement.It's okay to tell a mom to breastfeed.It's perfectly acceptable to force your opinions about formula feeding on a new mother.It's fine to tell a new parent that sleeping training is cruel.It's also perfectly reasonable to tell a parent that sleep training is the only way to get a baby to fall asleep.What's the matter with our society? Why are we so nosy? Why can't we just raise our children the way we like, and stay the hell out of everyone else's family.What works for you might not work for another mother or father, or grandmother, or grandfather.And guess what?That's [...]

"Watch your child!""Hold her hand!""Pay attention to your son!""You're a bad parent""You're a shitty parent!""You're a terrible human being!""You have no idea what you're doing!""Give up!""Go home and change yourself, because you don't work correctly. You're defective."Hey stranger! You're so brave in your car shouting parenting advice at me. You roll down the window and tell me what to do so freely. It makes you feel good to make me feel like shit.You succeeded.I feel like a terrible parent.You feel great about yourself now that you told me how to watch my son, parent my daughter.You feel powerful.You drive away before I can retort, leaving me tasting vile rage.I clench my fists.I want to scream and cry.Blood filled tears stream down my face.Tears filled with rage.I hate you stranger.I hate you for ruining my day.I hate the face I never saw. I hate the voice that I never attached to a face, the voice that told me how I was wrong.I scream internally.My insides ignite with fire. I'm filled with fury.I have nowhere to place my fire.It burns through me.I'll never see that face or hear that voice again.I'm a fire waiting for water to quell me.

I need my keys. I just put them down, but where... I came in the door, I put my bag down, and I went to the bathroom. Where are the fuck are my keys? I usually hang them up on the thing. But they're not on the thing. The thing is empty. "I'm hungry! I want a peanut butter sandwich! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! If you don't listen to me, I'll cry forever." That's an empty threat. He can't possibly cry forever, it's physically impossible. "WAAAAA!" Shit, Samara's crying. "Did you hit her?" "No!" "Are you sure?" "I hit her.""You don't hit her, use your words. Say sorry!""Sorry!""If your don't listen to me, you're not going to Trader Joe's!" Where the fuck are my fucking keys?! Maybe they're in the garbage. Samara could have thrown them in the garbage. She does that sometimes.Nope, they're not in the garbage. Wow, the garbage smells bad."Remember what I said?""Yes!" "So why are you doing that?""Because I'm trying to read a story!" I really have to leave. I'm still in my pajama pants."Why is she crying again?""I don't know. Here Samara!" "Don't give her that! She could swallow it!"Where are my keys? Where's my brain. I smell bad. Do I have time to shower? I'm [...]

I have a man. We've been together since I was six years-old. We were friends at first. He kept me company while I tapped my fingers on my mother's IBM Selectric II typewriter.I clicked away at my story. It was about a princess who lost her hat. Anyway, back to my man. He's loyal. He's been with me all these years. The relationship has grown. We used to be friends.But then I turned 16.It all changed.We became lovers.I was in love with him from the moment I opened my green composition notebook.He stayed with me, through every poem, every story, every lost love.He was with me when my first boyfriend broke my heart.He stayed with me when I wrote poem after poem, short story after short story.I went to college. We remained hard, fast, in love.He's mine.He will always be.Every time I gripped my felt tip pen, he was there, listening to every word, encouraging me to use my voice.He stayed with me through Israel, London, Ithaca, Spain, Croatia, France, Brooklyn, Manhattan, The Upper West Side, 87th Street, Park Slope, he's been there, and he'll always be there.I don't use a pen anymore; only rarely. But when I feel my [...]

I'm typing.  I'm watching. I'm typing again. I hear it. It's a need, a cry, a want. I shudder.  "Up, up, uppie!" She wants me.  I lift her up in my lap. I slowly feel my insides melt into gelatinous goo. I'm green, slimy, I'm nothing. I'm no one. I'm a giant mass of waste. She wants me. She wants everything I have. I have nothing left to give her. She jumps down from my lap. I'm a pool of slime on the floor. I'm trying to lift myself up, but I keep slipping. I'm melting into the hardwood floor.  I want to scream Someone help me! Lift me up. Bring me back to life. I can hear her crying. I can't get up. I'm liquid.  I'm nothing, I'm no one.  I feel the anger surge like electricity through me, a pile of liquid on the floor. I'm glowing, electric. I'm rising up above the floor, above the crying, above the sounds. I'm charged, plus, minus, electricity emanating through my veins.  I can feel. Wings spread through the electricity. They are white, fluid, long, soft.  I can breathe. I will not escape this feeling.  She cries louder. My wings spread [...]

"We're having a Halloween party today. The kids missed out on Halloween because of the hurricane." the principal told me. "Help your kids with their costumes and the party will start at 1:10.""Okay, great." I said rushing to my advisory room.I had a Dracula, Dr. Who, and a vampire among others. There was one boy dressed as Lady Gaga running amuck in the hall.I helped my kids with their costumes and then it was time.We all rushed in droves into a dark room with florescent green lights and cobwebs. There was a DJ with his hand on a record player ready to go. He released his hand and the music began to blast. All at once my stomach began to turn. 33, 32, 31, 30, 29, 28, 27...16, 15, 14, 13...12.I'm 12 years-old again. Standing in the corner of a large gymnasium. Looking at the boy dressed in baggy jeans and a black tee-shirt with spiky hair.I want him to look at me. If I nod my head to the music and do a little half smile, maybe he'll notice me. I move to the beat. I tap my foot. I'm cool. I'm cute. I'm going to lick my lips [...]

Out of all the boroughs, Hurricane Sandy hit Staten Island the hardest. One of Ari's teachers (Ms. Y) lives on Staten Island. I took Ari to school the other day, only to find that Ms. Y was not there. Ms. X (Ari's main teacher) greeted us as we entered the classroom. "Where's Ms. Y?" I asked "Is she okay?" "No," Replied Ms. X. "Her house was flooded. She's got a crew of people helping her clean it up at the moment." "Is there anything we can do to help?" I asked. "That's really sweet of you to ask." She replied. "I'll ask her and let you know." But that simply wasn't enough for this Jewish mother. When I arrived home, I busted out my laptop and searched through my email and found a mass email that Ms. X sent out a while back to all the parents in Ari's class.  I hit "reply all" and said: Hi All,It's come to my attention that Ms. X's home has been adversely affected by the hurricane. What can we do to help? By the way, I still don't really know the difference between "affected" and "effected." I think I used the correct word, but I [...]

I close my eyes and travel to a place I've seen many times before. There's a vast expanse of green. In the field is a multi-colored hot air balloon. Sitting next to the ballon's basket are two sand bags. The field is entirely empty. There are trees in the distance.I stand there in a green dress. It flutters in the wind.I want to step into the balloon's basket, but I'm scared.The wind gets stronger. I look up at the sky. The clouds turn a shade of dark gray and move toward the center of the field. I feel my chest tighten. I step one foot into the ballon's basket followed by the second foot. My dress gets caught on something. I feel a drop of rain, and I panic. I pull at my dress and it doesn't budge. It begins to rain. It's a gentle rain, but  know I don't know have much time.I tug hard at my dress and it rips, but I'm free.I get into the basket. I bend down and remove one sand bag, followed by another sand bag. The balloon releases; it rises up. I'm floating upward. I can feel the mist on my face. It's [...]

I've been thinking a lot about this, and I've come to a conclusion; toddlers are terrorists.Here's how it breaks down:Two year-olds are Kamikaze pilots. They're on a mission to destroy themselves. They wish to explode in more ways than one.Three year-olds are terrorists. They've moved past the stage of thoughtless self-destruction and attempts to murder themselves, and they're on to plotting the destruction of your world. They will stop at nothing until they get their way.Four year-olds politicians.These small humans are an entirely different story. Four year-olds aren't terrorists at all, they're politicians. They're tired of trying to sabotage themselves, and they've moved on to trying to prove you wrong through intense questioning sessions. Why? How? Who? Where? They're relentless. A lot of the time, this group employs circular logic in order to achieve their goals, and their arguments often lack rationality.The question on my mind is, what are five year-olds according to this model?