So, have your read the recent New York Times article on toddlers and iPhones? It's shocking and alarming! More and more parents (oh, ok, moms -- only one nameless man is mentioned in the entire article and we are not told how he handles his toddler's request) are giving their badly behaved children iPhones in order to shut them up! It's the 21st century version of plopping them in front of a TV! Only worse! Because it's interactive and kids like it better! It's damaging their developing brains! And deluded parents moms (colluding with evil marketers) pacify themselves by imagining some of this is educational for their children!

So, having kept on top of articles criticizing mothers for not being perfect and blaming them for everything that's wrong in the world the latest in parenting news, let me parse this for you:

• Letting your child ever, for one second of her life, touch an iPhone = bad parenting. You let your child touch an iPhone? Congratulations! You just caused brain damage. Your child will grow up to be a friendless alcoholic who is a drain on society. The collapse of Western civilization is entirely your fault, Mom.
• Having a child who is unable to remain motionless and quiet at all times in public without an iPhone = bad parenting. See above re: friendless alcoholic and it all being your fault.
• Wanting 10 minutes of quiet time, free from your child's demands = bad parenting. You must not really love your child if you are not constantly enraptured by them. Plus you clearly don't know how to set limits. Oh, and you're taking the easy way out. There's so much wrong with you, I don't even know what to say, other than: friendless alcoholic!
• Focusing your constant, developmentally enriching attention on your child for every single waking instant of your damn life, so that your child behaves to everyone's satisfaction without a minute of boredom and without ever touching an iPhone = bad parenting. Actually, the worst parenting. Helicopter parenting! (I wish I had a really spooky font for "helicopter," but that's okay, you can just read it in a spooky voice to yourself.) Your child will not only end up a friendless alcoholic, but he will have been so coddled he will be unable to dress himself, leading to an arrest for indecent exposure. Just you wait!
• "Free-ranging" your child so that they learn to entertain themselves without an iPhone = bad parenting. They will just steal someone else's iPhone while you are irresponsibly shirking your duty to watch them every moment (but the right way, you know, not by being a "helicopter parent"). Still, you can comfort yourself with the knowledge that your child will not become a friendless alcoholic. But that's only because she won't live long enough. She will be abducted and murdered by a stranger or will drown in a puddle or will fall and break her neck. And you will deserve it. Don't expect any sympathy. You got what was coming to you, bad Mom. And we are all better off without the worthless criminal your child was sure to become.
• Using your own best judgment about the use of various tools and techniques in moderation = bad parenting. Stop being lazy and making excuses for giving your child brain damage by handing him that iPhone for a 15 minute car ride! There is a right and a wrong way to do things. And anything less than 100% perfectly right all the time will lead to friendless alcoholic, drain on society, end of Western civilization, etc.

So, how can you be a good parent? It seems hopeless. Fortunately, there are two options:

1. Provide your child with wooden toys. (And make sure there's no lead paint on those! Oh, and don't be too uptight about it, because nobody likes a killjoy). Also, provide developmentally appropriate books. (And do start with picture books. After all, you did read that article about how bad parents moms are pushing their kids into chapter books too fast, right?) Nothing with batteries, nothing with screens, no BPA plastic, no potentially toxic anything, no choking or strangulation hazards. But do that all effortlessly, because if you suck all the fun out of childhood, you are also a bad mom.
   
   Next, focus your complete, perfect, developmentally enriching attention on your children for some unknown ideal number of hours each day. Too much or too little and we are right back to friendless alcoholic. If you don't already know that perfect number, I'm not going to tell you; all good parents already know it. If you don't, you were clearly raised by wolves yourself, so there's no point. You're beyond hope, and so is your child. You'll have to skip to Option 2.
   
   Now (and this is the most important part) have a child who behaves perfectly at all times and entertains herself on cue in quiet and educationally appropriate ways whenever your perfect, developmentally enriching attention is not on her, and who voluntarily (but politely and without seeming uptight or brainwashed) refuses offers of other kids' inappropriate toys and effortlessly redirects them into fun, educational, developmentally appropriate play. If that sounds tough, it is. Fortunately, there's an easier way. Which brings me to...
2. Be a man. When fathers hand their kids iPhones, it's cute, because those silly men don't know any better. And besides, he's trying to train Junior to be an engineer! When fathers refuse iPhones and the kids throw a tantrum in public, Dad is being a tough disciplinarian who is raising an upstanding citizen.
   
   Be a man and no one will mention you by name in a New York Times article full of dataless speculation about things that might, maybe, in some unknown quantities be harmful to children (or not, but of course they are, we all know that). No one will criticize your sad inability to breastfeed. No one will picture your fatherly face when they read about a 12-year-old who can't operate an ice tray because his "helicopter parents" (read: mom) spent too much time with him, gave him too much attention or was too helpful. No one will imply that you are heartlessly shirking your duties or that you don't love your child adequately if you drop him off at daycare.
   
   Now, I know what those of you born with vaginas are thinking, "But I can't just become a man!" To which I say, sure you can. Halloween is just around the corner and I bet all those fake beards will be on sale soon. And let's face it, even sex reassignment surgery and a lifetime of testosterone supplements would be a hell of a lot easier than Option 1. Or you could, oh I don't know, use your own best judgment and trust other people to do the same. Oh, right! That would be bad parenting.

My son wanted to go to bed early the other night. Now you wouldn't think that this would be cause for alarm. There are lots of good reasons for him to be tired. Summer break is over. Fourth grade has started. The kids are no longer on a lazy summer schedule. Add the fact that cold germs are flying around, and maybe you have a kid whose immune system is fighting off some annoying but relatively harmless virus. So he's tired. And he asks to go to bed early. Think nothing of it.

Unless you're me, that is. This is An Event Out Of The Ordinary! And whether the Event Out Of The Ordinary is Mark coming home late or Austen going to bed early, these things are Bad (yes, with a capital B). In this case, my money was on leukemia. Either that or some horrible irreversible disease caused by the fact that Austen's diet is so limited.

Ordinarily, I don't share these things with anyone outside of my husband, because the inevitable response (even, to a more limited extent, from Mark, who at least keeps loving me anyway) is: you're crazy, you're so overreacting, he's just tired, and I'm somewhat disturbed by your craziness, so I'll just go stand over here now. Or... If you're so worried about it, you should work harder and do better. Clearly his diet is limited because of your awful laziness and lack of discipline and willpower. People like you are ruining America and are personally responsible for my unhappiness. I demand that you fix this, and if you just [insert long list of advice that hasn't worked yet and/or recommendation to focus solely on this goal to the exclusion of the needs of all other family members], all the world's problems would be solved.

So, it's tiresome, this admitting of strange, secret, niggling fears. It feels like walking a mile carrying a hundred pound weight (which, by the way, wouldn't be so hard if you stayed in better shape, MPJ, so stop complaining). In fact, it's so very tiresome, that I've spent my entire life not telling people (aside from a trusted few) that if my son asks to go to bed early, I secretly think he might have leukemia. And that I might even go so far as to stand next to his bed, biting my bottom lip, my hand hovering over his sleeping head to see if I feel a fever.

Austen is fine, of course. After a few nights of early bedtime, he has been his usual cheerful, energetic self. And I'm fairly certain (well, ok, maybe I will be in a few days) that he doesn't have any life threatening disease at the moment. But I'm also fairly certain that the next time he says his stomach is upset, I'll be biting my lip and furrowing my brows, thinking I may have been wrong last time, but this time...

The one thing I feel I can never be certain of, until the very moment I hit publish, is whether or not sending my whispers of imperfection out along distant electronic tendrils of this universe -- and the relief and recognition and connection and not-aloneness it might bring somewhere -- is worth walking a mile with that damn weight. This summer, it wasn't. But, today, it's back to school time, and unlike my kids, I feel like I have all the energy in the world.

A few months ago, Mark and I took the kids to a "sensory friendly" movie showing.  Autistic individuals, and others with sensory processing difficulties, can find a typical movie going experience overwhelming.  Movies are loud.  Theaters are dark and often crowded.  The screen is huge and the images on it are flickering and fast paced.  There are previews and commercials before the show that switch rapidly from one theme to another, while we wait impatiently for what we actually came to see.  Then when the movie does start, its story and situations are designed to evoke strong emotional responses: to scare or thrill or amaze us.  And did I mention they're LOUD?

Most of us go to the movies to be a little overwhelmed.  But for some people, all of that can be too much.  So, at sensory friendly showings, there are no previews.  The lights are dim, but the theater is not dark.  And the sound is turned down.  And not only that, it's ok to sing or talk or to get up and walk around, dance or jump if it all gets to be too much anyway.

At the showing we went to, some kids got up and paced the aisles.  Some rocked in their seats.  Some grunted or chirped.  My son commented on the movie at full voice.  (Whispering is only for secrets.)  And we all had a fun day out doing something different while nobody stared.  Nobody glared.  Nobody shifted uncomfortably in their seats and made little "hem" noises in their throats.  The air didn't buzz with electric hostility.  And nobody had to worry that, at any moment, it might.

I don't know about the other parents in that theater, but I felt like I'd been able to put down a hundred pound weight.  The kids and young adults in that theater could all be themselves, and we all understood.  No one said anything or did anything, but there was a palpable sense of acceptance in the air.  It hung there, invisible but enveloping, like the drowsy smell of honeysuckle on a warm afternoon.  What a relief.  Which made me realize just how guarded I am and how much weight, how much fear and tension and worry, I carry every day.

This past weekend, I went to a convention for my 12 Step group.  Hundreds of sex addicts and their partners or family members gathered in hotel conference rooms and ballrooms.  There were meetings and workshops and outings.  There were speakers who shared their experience, strength and hope.  At each banquet iced tea was served instead of alcohol.  No one gossiped about the latest infidelity scandal in the media.  People openly shared their pain and their weaknesses and their gratitude.  And all weekend long, I had nothing to do but connect with my Higher Power in a group of people who was supporting me in doing just that.  All weekend long, I felt I had nothing to worry about and nothing to fear.

Again that love and acceptance enveloped me.  Again that hundred pound weight dropped off my shoulders. Again the relief washed over me.  And again I realized just how guarded I am and how much weight, how much fear and tension and worry, I carry every day.

On the last day of the convention, I wept with gratitude for the gift of having been there.  (If you were one of the lovely ladies sitting around a hotel banquet table with me on Monday morning at breakfast, yes, that was me crying and smiling at you all crazy.) We were asked on that last day if we had picked up any burdens that we wanted to leave behind, and I couldn't think of any.  All I could think was that I needed to try not to reshoulder the burdens I'd set down when I entered.

I was going to write this post about Facebook.  And Privacy.  And Privacy's evil twin, Secrecy.  And how when we say Privacy, we often really mean Secrecy.  Because not only do well-intentioned but befuddled people confuse the two, but addicts and other evil-doers also (gasp!) use the sacred name of Privacy as a mask for the nasty, putrid character of Secrecy.

I was going to tell you to learn to recognize Secrecy. (It's the one with the goatee.  Oh, and also the one you've lied to someone about, explicitly or implicitly.)  And I was going to ask you to think carefully about whether you are really, really talking about nice, clean-shaven Privacy or if you are actually sporting evil facial hair and hiding from people for fear of being judged.  And that being worried about how it will look if people know that you are who you are is not Privacy, it's illness. And I was going to tell you to live well and without secrets.  And not be both so scared and so freaking judgmental.  And if you live with secrets anyway (you devious person!), then Deal With It if you are outed.  Because it's your fault for having them.

And as for Privacy online (or Secrecy online for that matter), I was going to inform you that it's an illusion.  Nothing on the Internet is really private; it's on millions of computers around the world, forever.  If it's truly private, don't put it out there or at least recognize the risks, because demanding Privacy online is the equivalent of yelling at people for walking into a public restroom while you're using it with all the doors wide open.  Good, honest, non-goatee wearing Privacy is what the confines of our own Real Life are about. (It's all the stuff I don't post on the Internet. Whatever that is.) *

And I was going to tell you all this as someone whose life and marriage has been marred by secrets, so that I can see the difference between Privacy and Secrecy in the big, ugly gash burned through the middle of my existence.  And as someone who has this secret blog with a secret identity.  And who litters the Internet with posts about whole bunches of stuff that, really, I'd rather people in my Real Life didn't know.  All of which makes me one of the World's Experts on Privacy, Secrecy and Stuff Not to Post on the Internet.

But as I was writing that post, being all opinionated and you'ing you about how to do stuff right, you whiny and incompetent Facebook users, I saw that all that stuff about you was (surprise!) really stuff about me.  And not just stuff about me, but putting all my worst fears and worst character defects right out there in your face.  I mean, really, that kind of bossy, judgmental, know-it-all-ism -- telling you about how you shouldn't be bossy or judgmental because it makes me have to deal with my uncomfortable feelings about Secrecy and Privacy and how they've gotten all mixed up in my life to the point where it makes me want to punch them both square in the nose -- that's me at my total worst.  And that is the very kind of secret I shouldn't post on the Internet.

The scene: Janie's elementary school.

A first grade girl is throwing a huge, spectacular tantrum. She is alternately thrashing on the ground and trying to kick, hit and even bite her own mother as dozens of well-behaved, polite children walk past.  Passersby are shocked and alarmed by her awful behavior.

That child? Yep. My child.

The scene: Janie's elementary school again.

Two girls at a school auction are bidding on the same children's gardening equipment: a pot, gloves, a spade, a mini rake and two packets of seeds. An ordinarily adorable girl has her face contorted in rage, with tears streaming down her face, screams, "I want it!" The other girl whispers, "Why don't we put our money together and share it?"

The first girl tugs frantically on her mother, shrieking commands at her to bid higher, which she refuses, while the room echoes with sobs and other parents look on in alarm. When the bidding has almost closed and she concedes, tearful and desperate, that she will share.

The second girl picks up and calmly divides the item, while the first girl frowns. "Thanks so much for sharing!" says the second girl, before turning to her mother and saying, "When these flowers grow, I want to give one to everyone in my class."

My child? The one who grew a garden to share.

The scene: A supermarket

After screaming at his mother in the checkout line, a boy yells, "You're terrible!" at a grocery clerk whose line happened to be moving slowly. Onlookers frown and whisper with distaste.

That boy? My son.

The scene: A church ceremony

One boy squirms and cries, slides off the pews, hides under the seats and talks out loud during the ceremony until he has to be taken outside.  Another boy sits quietly in his seat for hours, looking at the program, the hymn book and other reading material. An elderly couple praises the parents of the second child for what a good job they are doing with their son, not only is he quiet, he also loves reading.

My child? The one who is obsessed with words and numbers and spent the whole ceremony focused quietly and intently on the new material.

A few days ago, a columnist I generally like wrote a satirical piece on sex addiction rehab (one I won't link to here, due to its triggering nature). He's a liberal columnist, so the comments were populated with lots of LOLs and virtual eye rolling at the concept of sex addiction as a creation of the religious right: people who are uptight about and don't know how to enjoy sex. There was lots of mocking of the "higher power" concept, lots of atheists sneering at the superstitious nonsense that is God.

Of course, the conservative flip side of the "sex addiction is a joke" coin is to sneer at therapists: people who are forever trying to write off weakness and lack of willpower as "diseases" in order to bilk people out of money.  Either way, treatment for sex addiction is seen as misguided and useless: so called "sex addicts" either "just" need to loosen up and learn to accept and enjoy their sexuality or "just" need to have more willpower and moral fortitude.

And either way, as someone married to a sex addict, it can be both hurtful and maddening to feel the world is ringed around us in a circle, pointing and laughing, saying that we've been duped when, for the first time, we feel we're seeing clearly. It's one of those things that is likely to draw me back into that crazy place I used to occupy: where, like a six-year-old, I yell "NO!" at someone else's "Yes!" only to have them yell "Yes!" back at me in an endless cycle; where I feel panicked and crazy, as if someone's telling me the sky is red when I see it's blue; where I spend my time and energy fruitlessly trying to convince someone else that they're wrong so that I can feel right again.

I wanted (desperately) to pull out my credentials and yell into the comments section, "Mark and I weren't some crazy, uptight religious fanatics who just couldn't embrace our sexuality!  And I'm not some uptight, frigid wife who can't please her man!  I was a really good atheist who really loves sex!"  As if the columnist, or any of the commenters, would read that and suddenly say, "Oh, some random stranger on the Internet says that wasn't her experience. Now I've totally changed my view on sex addiction!" rather than, "I bet she actually sucks in bed and her husband is an asshole."

Deep breath.  Step 1.  I am powerless over other people.  I am powerless to change their perceptions of me.  And trying to do so anyway makes my life unmanageable.  Followed by Step 2.  Help from that much maligned higher power.

I didn't leave the comment.  I stopped reading, made the column disappear in a flash of electrons with the click of my mouse and I did something I never used to do before.  I prayed.  "God, let me see the world through your eyes.  Let me not be threatened by people whose experiences are different.  When I mock others, I am usually scared and hurting.  In every place that this columnist and his readers are scared and hurting too, open their hearts to love and peace.  Help me on my journey, and help all of them follow the path they need to, so that we can find love and understanding for each other."

In the past, I wouldn't have prayed because my God is not a separate being who controls the world, but I've found that prayer isn't (as I used to think) some useless, crazy, superstitious ritual predicated on achieving results with the help of a supernatural power.  Prayer is a tool I use to ground myself, open my own heart and let go of my own pain, fear and anger.  Prayer is a way of connecting to my higher power, my better nature, my Buddha nature, the God part inside me.  Prayer is a way of feeling love and compassion and connection to others, rather than distance and anger and fear and resentment.  When I pray for someone who requests my prayers, it connects us, and lifts us both up.  When I pray (quietly, secretly) for someone who doesn't request it, it helps me love and forgive.  I've learned that even if prayer never produces any tangible results in the world, it's not useless -- not to me -- because the purpose isn't to change the world to get what I want, it's to help me be in line with and at peace with what is.

If you have kids, or if you're planning to have kids, or if you know people who have kids and know you'd do it better, you should listen up today, because I am going to do something I rarely do: tell you all how to do it right.  Yep, I have the one and only secret to good parenting, and I'm about to share it.

After all, none of us want our kids to end up poor or unhappy or addicted or in jail.  We don't even want our kids to end up being that asshole on the freeway who flips people off (although I'm pretty sure that guy fits into the unhappy category).  So we (at least parents in my demographic here in the US) fuss quite a lot about a whole lot of different decisions.  When we have infants we wonder: breast or bottle feed?  Cry it out or co-sleep with them?  At what age and how long?  As our kids get older, we try to balance teaching them to be independent with reasonably protecting them from harm.  We look for the right answer to each: the one that's going to ensure children who are polite, happy and good students, the one that's going to give them a good career and a comfortable life, the one that's going to keep them from robbing anyone at gunpoint in the future.  I know.  I'm there.

Fortunately, I found the answer.  The one answer.  The key that always allows me to make the right decision in any situation without fussing over all the minutiae. It's a mere four words (well, five if you count a contraction as two words), so it's easy to remember.  And while I am (unfortunately) not a god with the ultimate control over every aspect of the universe that will allow me to absolutely guarantee a perfect outcome, I can guarantee that this one tactic will reduce your child's chances of becoming and addict or a serial killer or a petty thief or just an asshole to as close to none as you have the control to get it.  In fact, following this single guideline will increase your child's chances of success and happiness more than every other decision you ever make combined.

What is this extraordinary secret?  It's simple:

Don't abuse your kids.

That's it.  That's all there is to it.  Don't beat your kids with hammers.  Don't force them to eat roaches or their own excrement.  Don't put your lit cigarettes out on their bodies.  Don't choke them.  Don't break their bones.  Don't lock them in closets without food or water for hours on end.  And don't ever have sex with them.

Now some of you are thinking, "Wait.  That's stupid.  And obvious.  Those things are absolutely horrible.  Of course I'm not going to do any of that to my kids.  There must be some key for the rest of us."  But is there?  What are the things we think are making a difference: the things we agonize over and judge each other on?

I was pushing my son in his stroller one day when he was about six months old.  It was early fall and the weather was just starting to get cool.  I'd put socks on him, in this fruitless parental gesture, before we'd left the house, but he'd tugged them off.  One was clutched in his little fist and another was on the stroller handle where I stuck it after I'd picked it up off the ground.  As I was nearly my home at the end of our walk, I passed a woman who looked at his feet and gasped.  "You'd better put socks on him," she admonished, "He's going to get cold!  How can you treat a baby that way?"

I was standing outside my daughter's school the other day and heard one mom whispering to another, "Can you believe how many parents carry their kids backpacks?"  "I know," the second mom replied, "Those kids are not learning any responsibility.  Their parents are doing them such a disservice.  What are they going to be like when they grow up?"

"You have to sign your son up for karate," another parent urged me.  "Kids have to learn discipline and respect and self-confidence.  Kids these days don't learn that and just look at the way they turn out."

I was sitting with a friend who was bottle feeding her baby when a woman walked up and said, "Don't you know breast is best?  Your child's health and future depend on what you feed her now!  What you are doing is just awful!"

A man called back at a little boy bounding through Target several feet to his right.  "Hey, you!  Slow down.  Kids like you have no thought of other people.  You could knock into someone running like that.  Don't your parents teach you anything?  You're going to grow up to be a menace to society."

So, here's the thing.  Yes.  It's nice to put socks on your kids in cool weather and get them to take care of their own backpacks and let them learn karate and breastfeed them and tell them to use their walking feet.  Those are good things to do, but they're not make or break, life or death.  We inflate them to that level.  We like to think they're important.  We pass judgment and parse out these tiny little chances of bad things happening.  We try to reduce the risk of addiction by .000000000000001% by taking our child to karate lessons or reduce our the risk of our kids being "rude" or "entitled" by .000000000000000000003% by not carrying their backpacks or increase their future ability to feed themselves, by, um...  Well, probably nothing.  I mean, come on, what typically developing child grows up to be an adult who actually doesn't go to college or get a job and starves to death alone in an apartment the government paid for because she didn't learn to pack her lunch at age 7?  And do you really think no responsible citizen was ever a kid who bolted away from his mom in a store?

In all that hand wringing over tiny details, we miss the big picture.  All of us non-abusers should be throwing a party because we've already cut our kids' risk of becoming prostitutes or strippers or porn stars to almost nothing just by not having sex with them.  And our children have almost no risk of ending up in jail for murder simply because we give them adequate love and nutrition.  Do you know how many child molesters carried their own backpacks?  Some did, some didn't.  But do you want to know how many child molesters were sexually abused as children?  100%.  Ta da!*

So, you want to make the world a better place?  You want to give kids the best chance possible of having happy, productive lives?  You want to see fewer mean, selfish, unhappy adults?

Don't abuse your kids.  Make sure they get enough to eat, whether it's breast milk or formula.  Love them and support them, whether you carry their backpacks or not.  Help them spend time doing the things they love, and spend time with them, whether that's in karate class or not.  Make sure they are clothed and comfortable, whether they wear socks or not.  And contribute your time, energy and money to causes that help prevent and treat child abuse, rather than worrying about whether or not the mom down the street packs lunch for her kids or does enough to make her child stand still in line at the store.

Lesson over.  There will be a test every day for the rest of your lives.  Don't fail.  And if you need help studying, get it.

I woke up this morning, muscles clenched like a fist and throat tight with anxiety, wanting to grab my son and never let him go. I crept to where he was sleeping and ran my fingers through his curls, reassuring myself he was there and safe. He'd actually been better than usual in this morning's version of my recurring nightmare; at least in this dream, I'd found him in the end.

I've had some variation on this nightmare — in which I lose one or both of my children — countless times. In a nightmare theme a few weeks ago, I'd happily, if absent-mindedly, voiced my assent to my 6-year-old daughter's trip to the mall with a friend of hers on Christmas day. Dream-hours later, when she wasn't home yet, I realized I didn't know the friend's name, address or phone number and there were no stores open on Christmas. She was gone, taken, and it was my fault.

Last night, my husband was the bad guy for a change instead of the usual villain: me. In my dream, he'd planned to go out to run some errands alone, but Austen begged to come, so the two of them went off together, but only Mark returned home, having forgotten he'd brought Austen with him. We rushed back to find him, with my dream mind running through the very real-life possibilities that Austen would not be able to communicate his needs and get help. We found Austen and he burst into tears mingled with a steady stream of anxious, repetitive shouts and questions with no answers, very much like what I'd expect of the real Austen under stress. Then the chime of my alarm woke me, still tight and panicky, and truly wanting to punch my husband, who was sleeping innocently beside me, totally unaware of what he'd been doing in my dream.

I realized, as time passed and I calmed down, that on top of the fear that I will lose my children, the sheer panic that they could be hurt or lost or worse — a fear any parent understands — there extends through all of these nightmares a different kind of fear. In each dream, at some point, I always think, "Oh, no. I'm not going to be able to find this child by myself. I have to ask someone — the store clerk, a police officer, a neighbor — for help. But if I tell them I lost my child, they are not going to want to help me. They are going to blame and judge me. They are going to tell me I didn't work hard enough and do well enough. They are going to tell me that it's my fault. And even if we find my child, they are going to think that my husband and I are such bad parents that they take our children away forever anyway." It's not just the realization that my child is missing that causes the nightmares to be so traumatic, it's the realization that my child is missing, that I might be blamed and that the problem is so big, I can't fix it by myself.

And I recognize that isolation and loneliness, that self—blame and guilt. I recognize those fears: The fear of asking for help. The fear that mistakes or weaknesses or imperfections will cause me to lose everything I love. The fear that I'm not working hard enough. The fear of judgment and of blame, and not just in and of themselves, but as agents of loss. I recognize in all of these the deep roots of addiction and codependency still present in my mind, gripping me when I sleep.

A few years ago, I was visiting my friend Ellie and was a guest in her house for the first time in my life.  I had just taken a shower and was standing in her bathroom, a wet towel in my hand, at a loss for what to do.  Should I hang the towel on the rack?  Sling it over the shower?  Hang it on the bar inside the shower door?  And should I fold it in half or lay it out flat?  Maybe I should fold it in thirds?  Should I throw it in the laundry room?  Or maybe there was some other way of handling towels that I wasn't even aware of...  These seem like small things, but they deeply concerned me.  What was the right way to take care of a wet towel?

Oh, sure.  I knew what I would do at home.  But I also eat in front of the TV, chewing with my mouth open and resting my bare feet on the coffee table, at home.  And that, my friends, is certainly not the "right" way to eat.  I was pretty sure that there was a way to hang the towel that would signal that I was raised by wolves and would bring shame to my entire family.  My parents would be greatly disappointed in me, knowing they had told me a million times how to hang a towel, and now, at this critical moment, I had completely forgotten all they taught me about how people ought to do things.

I was going to be judged and found wanting.  I was going to be unmasked for what I was: crude and thoughtless.  Ellie was going to walk into that bathroom, see that towel hung up in some clearly, horribly, offensively wrong manner and was going to think I didn't love her enough to take care of her towels properly.  I'd never be invited back.  Our friendship would grow distant.  All over this towel!  And even if — through a sheer luck, — I passed this towel test, I was probably going to use the wrong fork at dinner.  Or put my elbows on the table.  Or forget to make my bed in the morning (I don't make mine daily at home).  Or make the bed the wrong way.  Or put my foot square in my mouth over something.

There went my brain, dashing off down those rutted, well worn tracks.  I'd seen people in my life cut down and cut out for things like the way they hang their wet towels, and I'd been cut down and cut out for similar things enough in past relationships that such questions and worries had become a matter of habit.  Somewhere along the line, I'd gotten it into my head that there was a right way to do everything, and everything must be done that way, perfectly.  If not, what followed was judgment, shame, humiliation, rejection and abandonment.  Those thoughts were so routine, I never even noticed them.  But this time, standing there in Ellie's bathroom, with a little bit of recovery behind me, I finally caught myself on that race to Crazytown and laughed out loud.  For crying out loud, it's a wet towel!  And everything is going to be ok, no matter how I hang it up.

So, I hung up the towel, left the bathroom and joined Ellie for breakfast.

I don't watch Jon and Kate Plus 8 for two reasons (and one of those reasons is not that I'm so above reality TV trash, because back when I used to work in an office, I totally won the office Survivor pool):

Reason 1: Well, obviously, I never heard of the show until recently, but now that I have, I'm too busy blogging about not watching it to spring for fancy channels I can't watch because they cut into my blogging time. And don't tell me the episodes may be available online. Do you want me to finish this post or go googling for answers?

Reason 2: I don't watch shows involving parenting because they piss me off. The last time I watched a parenting related show was when Supernanny was "helping" the parents of an autistic child by berating them and making them cry. Supernanny traumatized me through the screen and triggered my own perfectionism and fears of judgment so much that I wanted to punch her in the nose. I decided I should go pray and meditate until I was so spiritual and confident and accepting of my own imperfections as a parent and well, generally fixed that the thought of Supernanny didn't make me want sneak tacks into her bed. Years later, I'm not there yet. Supernanny is on my resentment list. High up. In all caps. Bold. Italics. Right next to my high school history teacher.

Still, in spite of the fact that I don't watch it and know next to nothing about it, there is something about Jon and Kate Plus 8 that interests me, and it's not my opinion on the show or any of the drama surrounding it. (Opinions? Of course I have opinions, in spite of knowing nothing more than what I've gleaned from my friends' gossip and a google search. There are kids, there's parenting, there's potential infidelity involved. I'm all about opinions on that.) But what interests me is my inability to talk to anyone about it.

You see, if I were to end this post about here and put it out into the wide world even beyond this blog — say, on the New York Times blog Motherlode (um, no that couple is not me) or Salon or anyplace else — I predict that 100% of the commenters (or somewhere close to 100%) would pick a side and tell me why I was right or wrong not to have watched it. (Come on, you thought about it yourself. Admit it. I know I would.)

Included in those comments there would be — spoken or unspoken — judgments about me (good and worthy person for not watching trash TV vs. bad and ignorant person for writing about shows I know nothing about), judgments about Jon and Kate (evil greedy money mongers selling out their family vs. nice folks just trying to give their kids a future in an imperfect way; along with some: they deserve what they get for choosing to be on TV vs. no one deserves to be treated that way regardless of choices), judgments about the other commenters (worthless people who watch inexcusably trashy TV vs. snobby, awful people who don't get why the show is interesting and worthwhile). And implicit in many of those judgments will be the assumption that there is a right way to do, be, look at everything (and my way is the right way, of course).

Six years in to working on my communication skills and my own unhealthy habit toward things like judgment and perfectionism, I find I'm at a loss for how to engage with others on this topic (among others). Because I recognize that getting into what I think about Jon and Kate or the show or their kids or reality TV or TV at all isn't really relevant. The whole thing about Jon and Kate isn't really about Jon and Kate.

In fact, you may have noticed that I already told you (a bit) what it's actually about when I said why I don't watch the show. It's about my own parenting fears and fallibilities. It's about my anxiety around how people judge my life even though it's not on TV and how many more would judge it if it were. It's about the judgments I make about other families and children without knowing or understanding them. It's about the fear and frustration that comes from my inability to control people around me whose actions and decisions and craziness impact my life. For someone else, it may be something different, but that's what it's about for me.

But start a conversation about all that? A conversation where there aren't right answers only our own individual truths? Yikes! I'd be vulnerable and that would be scary. And I'd probably get triggered and annoyed and frustrated.  It's easier to argue about what I think about Jon and Kate. Only I haven't watched the show. That's ok, maybe the episodes are online. Then when I tell you what my opinions are, they'll seem more credible and you'll see how totally right I am about them.