I am the family weirdo, the black sheep, the one who’s gone astray. I’m sure that, in my absence, other family members shake their heads ruefully, tut-tutting at the shame of it all.

OK, some background is in order, lest you start developing an image of Bonnie Parker crossed with Calamity Jane and projecting it upon me. My husband and I have been married for over 18 years, our children are nearly-7 and 4-and-a-half, and we are serious homebodies. I don’t smoke, don’t take anything harder than ibuprofen, rarely imbibe, and have but one vice–Dr. Pepper.

I find “Girls’ Night Out” to be distasteful at best and have never participated in one. I like being married, I like everything that goes along with being married. I have somebody to walk beside me while I navigate the rough road of life. Mr. Prairie and I have a true partnership of equals. He doesn’t try any of that submit nonsense on me and I don’t try to wheedle and manipulate him to get my way. We co-parent our children; we have each others’ backs and present a unified front. I know that he is just as competent at parenting as I, if not more so.

I have never been arrested and haven’t even been stopped for speeding in years. While public shared spaces aren’t good places to post the 10 Commandments, I try my best to adhere to them in my own life. Especially the boring ones about not doing various things that hurt others, like not stealing, not killing, not bearing false witness, and not cheating on one’s spouse.

I look like the boring middle-aged mom that I am. Jeans and t-shirts are my customary uniform. My feet can be found in very small, very comfortable shoes.

Why then, am I the family weirdo?

Because I don’t go to church. Seriously. That and all it implies. I had to abandon the baptist church, because they abandoned me. Not one to be meek, mild, and mealy-mouthed, I refuse to buy into that whole submit nonsense. And since, to conservative types, appearance is all, my refusal to pretend makes me a perfect target.

Ya know, in other families I would be considered the stable, boring, “good” one. But being a secular, liberal, free-thinker has marked me, perhaps forever, as The Family Weirdo.

As parents, we find ourselves saying things that, when child-free, we never imagined that we would say. Things like, “Don’t spit on the window, that’s gross!” “No, you can’t have cotton candy for dinner.” “Don’t eat crayons.” and the parental standard, “Because I said so, that’s why.” But the one thing I find myself saying the most, or asking rather, is: “Why are you naked?”

And I found myself asking just that question this morning, early this morning. I woke up at about 4:30 this morning, only three hours after I got to sleep. You see, I had made the mistake of eating after I got home from work, then taking an allergy pill, and then conking out on the Widow-maker (the sofa). At 4:30 on this ill-fated morning, I woke with the worst heartburn. I got up, moved over to the comfy chair and tried, in vain, to go back to sleep. (I can’t sleep on our bed right now, the mattress is more uncomfortable than the Widow-maker.) Monkey came stumbling in at about 6 a.m., grumbled a bit, and fell back asleep on the sofa.

At 6:30 am, I was just starting to doze off again when Pumpkin put in an appearance, wrapped in her blanket. She wasn’t interested in going back to sleep, she wanted to play. I got her a cereal bar, turned on some cartoons, told her to be quiet, and went back to sleep. Some time later, I woke up and looked over at my little blanket-wrapped sweetie. The blanket wasn’t completely wrapped around her and I could tell she was no longer wearing her shirt.

“Why are you naked?” I asked for about the millionth time. “That because I took off my clothes,” she answered. (I was a little shocked, it’s mostly been rhetorical until this point.)

Turns out she was starkers; I gotta remember to wash that blanket. So I stumbled around, found some mismatched shorts and shirt for her, and managed to put the shirt on top and the shorts on bottom. I still can’t tell if she just likes to be au naturel or if she likes to change clothes a lot. After we got home from Mayfest today, she decided that her current dress just wouldn’t do. She stripped down and demanded a new shirt. Right now she’s on outfit-of-the-day number 4 (if you count the blanket-toga).

This is why I can’t get ahead on the laundry.

As you may know, due to the presence of two small children in the House, I watch a lot of children’s programming. Some of it I like, some of it I can stand, some of it is “meh”, and some of it is actively awful. But I have resigned myself to my odious fate. Occasionally, I can sneak in the odd rerun of “Project Runway” or “Matlock” (I loooove me some “Matlock”!) but there is one type of TV show I avoid like the plague.

Soap Operas.

Here’s the problem, I used to be seriously into, nay addicted to, “Days of Our Lives” in college. Marlena, Roman, Kim, Shane, Patch, Kayla, Bo and Hope, Jack and Jennifer, Victor Kiriakis, Ma and Pa Brady, Julie and Doug (from when I was a child and my mom used to watch it), and who could forget Calliope and Eugene (the incomparable John de Lancie). Who could not watch in fascination as all the bad karma in the world descended on the hapless Brady clan week after week? Who could not try to fathom not just the tragedy, but the utter weirdness swirling about Salem? What was that? You could? Well, maybe that was just me.

Anyway, I have purposely avoided getting re-involved with soap operas, especially as a SAHM. I’d get even less housework done than I do now! I have indulged myself by reading the blurbs in the back of the TV listing every week. The familiar names and the comfortingly kooky predicaments all felt like postcards from my younger self who used to structure her class schedule around “Days”(I kid you not).

Today I accidentally watched a few minutes of my old friend, “Days”. No, really. It was a total accident. This morning I had the TV on whatever morning “news” show is on NBC. I wanted to watch the weather and see more footage of that amazing plane crash in NYC. When Pumpkin finally reached her boring, old grown-up show limit she pulled her favorite “Pink Panther”(animated) DVD out of the cabinet. She watched it while she colored in her big coloring book and munched on the occasional crayon. When it was over, I switched it back to the TV so I could make her lunch in relative peace. And what should be on? “Days of Our Lives!!!”

I found myself in the warm embrace of old friends. There was Kayla and Marlena, discussing John Black’s latest bout of amnesia. Nothing had changed! Including my little problem. My eyes glazed over and I sat motionless on the edge of the couch. Where I would’ve watched the whole thing if my daughter had not reminded me, rather forcefully, that she was ready for lunch.

So the next time I grouse about having to watch children’s programming, I’ll try to remind myself that it is better than the alternative.

You all have been privy to one of my dark secrets and it’s your turn: What do you absolutely adore yet avoid like the plague? It can be anything, guilty-pleasure-TV, verbotten snack, luxurious indulgence, run-of-the-mill vice, whatever, just share.

Warning: Poop alert!

The phrase, “Don’t eat crayons!” sounds pretty straightforward, don’t you think? But apparently to my 3-year old it translates into “Go ahead, eat all the crayons you want!”

As if the fact of crayon-eating weren’t bad enough, I find little damp piles of masticated crayon in odd places, usually with my bare feet. Ew. But obviously she gets enough of the crayons ingested to make her poop colorfully speckled.

The worst part–they aren’t even her crayons, her pitiful victims belong to her brother. Poor little guy, reduced to coloring with ball-point pens and highlighters because his sister eats all his crayons! And this is no case of entrapment, I confiscate all crayons when I find them. I think she has a secret crayon-stash around here somewhere.
So, when I find my little crayon-bandit, evidence on her face, I tell her, “Don’t eat crayons!” I tell her over and over again as if it will make a difference. And every time she looks up at me, so solemn, so resolute, and says, “Ok, Mama.”

I swear this doesn’t happen to anyone else.