I’m horrified by what’s happening to the children of the religious sect in Texas — and on so many levels.

More than 400 children were removed from the Yearning for Zion Ranch during a weeklong raid in early April. The raid was prompted by a call to a domestic-abuse hotline by a teenager reporting that she was beaten and sexually abused by her much-older husband. That call may or may not have been a hoax. So far, the girl hasn’t been located. The children were removed from the ranch, which is

I knew it, but it took a bunch of researchers to prove it. Marriage equals extra hours of housework for women, according to a new study from the University of Michigan. For men, getting hitched saves an hour of weekly chore time.

Well, duh. When you double the number of people, but halve the number of people who give a damn about cleanliness, that equals double the amount of work for the person who cares. And nine times out of 10, the person who cares is female.

Here we have another

Sleep-sharing—it may not be for every family, and not even for every child, but when it works, it’s a good thing.

Sleep-sharing means that, at some point during the night at some time in your life, you, as a parent, sleep with or near your offspring. Some of us do it for a night here or there, or when a child is sick. Some of us do it for years.

Proponents of the family bed believe it promotes bonding and confidence. Both medical research and anecdotal evidence demonstrate that there are a

How does one become an edgy mama? There are many answers to that question.

My answer? Be a weed.

Not just any weed, but that toughest, most persistent, prickly and beautiful weed of them all.

Be a dandelion.

Dandelions bend in the wind. Then they pop right back. They’re tensile, like moms.

Like a flower, you chose to let one (or more) of the seeds you’ve been carrying in your ovaries since you were a fetus to be fertilized and sprout into one or more little humans. Or you may have

Parenting is the hardest job I’ve ever had. And the pay sucks.

Unless you’re a nanny (or manny), you’re not paid to parent. But to make parents feel better (or possibly worse), the folks at Salary.com came up with a “Mom Salary Wizard.”

Want to figure out your monetary worth as a mom? You can do it. You can even print out the cute, fake paycheck written out to “Mom” that, in my case, totals $89,815. Woohoo! That amount is in addition to my part-time pay as a freelance writer and

My kids excel in a number of areas, but they are at the top of the heap when it comes to picky eating.

I mentioned in this column last week that the four of us only eat five of the same foods (not including desserts): pizza, waffles, french fries, carrots and grapes. This dearth of variety significantly limits our dining choices.

Believe it or not, I’m actually simplifying the issue. For example, I realized that we all four eat bagels (not on the list above). However, my boy only likes

Going out to dinner at a restaurant with my family is part of how I like to celebrate my birthday (yes, it’s this week — March 25, to be exact). Going to a restaurant is always a fun treat. Plus, I don’t have to cook or clean or stress about Enviro-spouse cooking or cleaning.

The challenge is figuring out which restaurants can cater to my family’s food needs. As far as I can tell, the four of us only eat five of the same foods: pizza, waffles, French fries, carrots, and grapes. This

You’ve seen it, you’ve heard of it, you’ve dealt with it: Momnesia--that period of memory lapses and fuzzy thinking that follow giving birth.

A bunch of neurologists who study postpartum moms have discovered what anyone who’s ever pushed out a baby can tell you: babies cause you to lose your mind and everything that goes with it—your car keys, your wallet, your shoes and even your other kid.

When my first was 3-months-old, I loaded her into her car seat and drove to the nearest drugstore.

When you’re married and have young children, you figure your dating life is pretty much over.

Wrong. In fact, it’s just the time to start dating. Dating other families, that is.

Remember when you were single and had tons of friends? Friendships came easily. Then you became married or partnered. Suddenly, most of your friends were also couples. Remember how the dynamics changed? Like when you couldn’t stand your husband’s best friend’s girlfriend—the one whose every utterance sounded like

We all occasionally say one thing when we mean another. Parents, in particular, are masters of subtext. To help those of you who can’t always read between the lines, I’ve gathered and translated certain key sentences most of us have heard from other parents and, perhaps, that we ourselves have said.

Want to know what parents really mean? Here are comments and their translations you might hear on the playground, in school, or anywhere parents tend to gather with other parents and their

In case you didn’t know, February is Children’s Dental Health Month. So I took my kids to the dentist last week. I lucked out because their six-month cleaning just happened to be scheduled for February. Ironically, my son missed a field trip to The Health Adventure for a dental-health program in order to visit the real dentist. Which freaked him out, because the kid hates going to the dentist.

My kids, ages 9 and 6, have undergone a seemingly inordinate amount of dental work. My elder child

Screaming. Fists smacking into flesh. Hurled insults. Crashing sounds. No, I’m not describing a drunken Saturday night bar fight. I’m describing almost any day in my sunny living room.

I had no idea that once my kids grew beyond toddlerhood that my job description would change from primary caregiver to smackdown referee.

I have one of each. Each gender, that is. And when parents of boys tell me their testosterone-fueled males fight more than girls, I tell them they are mistaken. After all,

I’m occasionally blessed with three kids (third- and fourth-graders) riding in my mommy van at the same time. These kidlings seem to think there’s limo glass between the front and back seats. If I stay quiet, I can learn a lot. Stuff that my children wouldn’t otherwise tell me. Like who has a crush on whom and who got sent to the principal’s office. And how their parents drive them nuts.

Because the kids I ferry around town know I write about kids, they’ll occasionally talk to me. Especially

Valentine’s Day stresses me out.

As a parent, I see it through my kids’ eyes. This holiday has always been a high-stakes game of promise and preparation.

Let’s look first at the promise the day holds. I loved Valentine’s Day when I was a kid. Loved the pink hearts and lace doilies. And, of course, the candy: heart-shaped candies printed with “luv u” and Hershey’s kisses wrapped in shiny foil. Most of all, I loved the cards.

I remember the joy of a decorated shoebox stuffed with brightly

My mom loves to tell the story of how, as a first-grader, I told my teacher that my father sold socks and bombs. The baffled teacher called my mom to ask what my dad actually sold for a living (which makes me a bit concerned for my early education). Clearly, Dad was a stockbroker, but because I had no clue what stocks and bonds were, I translated those words into ones I understood. (Note to Homeland Security: My father has never had any dealings with actual bombs.)

What kids think their

The day after Christmas I received a special gift from my sister. She gave me her 21-month-old toddler for three days.

My nephew, Robert, is an adorable kid—flexible, sweet and a bit of a ham. But he’s also a toddler. Which means he’s curious, fearless, persistent and fast. In short, one of the most dangerous animals alive.

Example: We’d be playing in the front yard. Robert would fool us by wobbling around on his chubby little legs, looking like he could barely take more than three steps

This week I’m writing about that critical ingredient in sane parenting: beer. Not only is it mama’s nightly equilibrium enhancer, but this nectar is good for mama, too. Turns out that beer is the popcorn of beverages: economical, healthy, and an excellent mealtime complement, particularly when small children are underfoot.

In past Januaries, I’ve attempted the torture I call “beer fast.” Because I adore beer, and I drink five to seven pints per week, cutting out brewed calories often rids me

I usually don’t give unsolicited advice. And if I do, you certainly don’t have to take it. But if you follow my party rules, listed below, I guarantee that your party life will rock. Or at least roll a bit more.

Most parents don’t get to party with the frequency we enjoyed in our pre-breeding days. A party can be a big, freaking deal. It’s our chance to go out, preen a little, drink a little, flirt some, go home late, pay off the sitter, and then, well, you know.

I don’t need many parties

Dear 2008,

First of all, welcome! Secondly, I’m glad to be here with you. As a “counterphobic six” (see the Enneagram system of self-analysis), I’ve been convinced of my impending death since I was 16, most likely at the hands of someone wielding a two-ton pickup truck. Yet I’m still here, all these years later, rocking through another year. Although, you, 2008, could be the last one. You never know, but let’s hope not.

Before we get too well-acquainted and talk about stuff like New Year

One of Santa’s elves lives in our home for about a month each year. He’s 8 inches tall, wears red and white-striped overalls and has a bell on his hat. He’s at least 40 years old.

This elf once lived in the house where I grew up. My Mom says she’s not sure how or when he first came to visit, but he has a clear purpose. The elf’s job is to keep a close eye on everyone in the household during the month before Christmas and report back to Santa if we’re being naughty or nice.

For most of the

My book club, along with every other book club in America, recently read Elizabeth Gilbert’s memoir, Eat, Pray, Love. When we discussed the story, one of my book-club buddies noted Gilbert’s courage in venturing off on a yearlong spiritual search for self. But, she added, for those of us with kids, that amount of time and space for self is fricking impossible (OK, she didn’t say “fricking.” I did).

Not that Gilbert suggests that we all take a year off and travel to exotic locales to find

Finally, I’ve figured out a few saner, safer ways of surviving the holidays other than pouring myself down a beer bottle. (Although if it happened to be a bottle of Highland’s Cold Mountain Winter Ale, it’d be a sweet way to drown.)

My first, albeit baby, steps to stress reduction at this time of year include keeping holiday time simple in terms of travel, scheduling, gift giving and wrapping.

My childhood memories—wondrous, hand-drawn Norman Rockwell ones—remain fogged by the lens of

Wondering what to give your eco-wise, non-materialistic progeny for the holidays? Me too.

So I spent $100 on gas and pumped half a ton of carbon dioxide into the atmosphere, all in an effort to hunt down the coolest lead-free items to gift to your little prodigies and mine.

Here it is: Edgy Mama’s 2007 holiday gift guide for the Asheville kid.

• Kiddie political-action kit: “Protest often; protest early.” Kit consists of poster board, Sharpies, staple gun and wooden stakes (for placard

The genius who first mixed spandex with cotton is my hero. I’m serious. What’s one of my secrets to surviving momhood? Yoga pants.

Yoga pants rule.

Here’s why.

They’re fitted yet stretchy. I had a pair that I wore up until I gave birth to my first kid, which was uncomfortably two weeks past my due date. Then I wore them for another six months until I was able to fit back into my jeans.

How, you wonder, can one pair of pants cover a 40-pound weight gain and loss over one year? Spandex.

The first time I got preggers, Enviro-spouse and I spent hours discussing all the stuff soon-to-be first-time parents discuss—baby names, cloth versus disposable, how big my breasts were growing and circumcision.

We didn’t want to know baby’s gender until it popped out, so we needed to be prepared for the appearance of male genitalia. E-spouse was initially on the fence about circumcision. I felt that I didn’t want anyone, not even a doctor, unnecessarily cutting on my newborn.

So we

The scariest part of Halloween for me is the 20 pounds of sugar that comes through the door on the arms of my kidlings at the end of the night.

Visions of rotting teeth and obesity counseling flash through my head as they dump their loot on the kitchen table for the annual sorting rite. Our policy has been to allow them a couple pieces of candy on Halloween night, plus one sugared item in their lunchboxes for a week. After that, it all goes into the communal pantry candy jar, where it’s

“Sister said I’m not a superhero!”

That was the shout that awoke me at 5:45 the other morning. My 6-year-old son then crawled into bed with me, despondent, because his big sister just doesn’t understand his need for superpowers.

His superpowers change daily, but usually consist of one of the following: super strength, super speed, X-ray vision, and the amorphous ability to save the world and punish bad guys.

Of course, we’d all like to save the world, but, for some reason, this desire is

I’m scared I might be the Bill Buckner of parental organization.

I’ve watched a few critical balls roll right between my legs, just like the ill-fated Boston Red Sox first baseman did in 1986. But I haven’t totally blown the World Series of parenting. At least not yet.

That’s the thing about parenting—the pressure’s always on to do what’s best for your kid. It is adulthood’s major league.

Last winter, I fumbled the kindergarten-application process by forgetting to apply to send my

I didn’t leave my firstborn with a sitter until she was 5 months old. Enviro-spouse and I left her with a neighbor, who was an actual nanny, to go out to dinner for two hours. It was the worst dinner of my life. I didn’t want to eat. I didn’t want to drink. Most of all, I didn’t want to talk to E-spouse unless it was about the baby.

I called the sitter three times (and this was before the advent of universal cell phones). The third time, I heard my baby crying in the background. I insisted

You take a class to learn how to drive, but you don’t take one to learn how to raise kids. You can choose to attend a parenting class, but it’s a choice, not a requirement. Unless you’re Britney Spears, that is.

To my mind, raising kids involves the manipulation of much more complex machinery than a car—the machinery that controls developing brains and bodies. I’ve never attended a parenting class, but I learned a lot about parenting when I went to dog obedience class.

A few months ago,

I don’t know how you do it — all the time, day in and day out, for years on end — those of you who are single parents. Most of us with partners do it alone some of the time, but those of you full-timers, by choice or circumstance, are true saints.

I consider myself a part-time single parent. That’s because, although I’m married, my Enviro-spouse has to travel a good bit to do the work he loves and so he can help support our life in Asheville.

People often ask me what E-spouse does for a

Since having kids, I’ve embraced the shabby chic décor movement — heavy on shabby, light on chic.

In my mind’s eye, my home is filled with over-stuffed, beautifully upholstered furniture, wrought-iron fixtures and burnished wood. In reality, the sofa stuffing is exploding out of the stained fabric, the cheap metal fixtures are chipping, and puppy tooth imprints decorate the wood surfaces.

After we had our first baby, I realized I had to let go of my high standards for home cleanliness.

I realized recently that my kidlings no longer wake me up throughout the night — most of the time. I figure I now have a couple years of peaceful nights until they’re teenagers, when I’ll stay up to all hours watching their GPS cell transmissions until they’re home. (Wow, have times changed).

This doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten the days of baby-induced sleep deprivation. In fact, I recently found this open letter I wrote three years ago, when I could still blame my mental state on lack of

The media and the message boards have been all over breastfeeding rights lately, what with the hubbub around a nursing mom being reprimanded for alleged immodesty in a Kentucky restaurant.

I’m not going to get into that ferocious debate here. Instead, I thought I’d engage in a little nipple-gazing reverie because really, I can only tell you what I know — babies like to nurse and boys never forget.

I nursed my babies all over the place. No one ever told me to cover up or leave a restaurant.

Local folk musician Billy Jonas sings a brilliant call-and-response song called “What Kind of Cat Are You?” If you live in Asheville and have kids under the age of 10, you probably know it by heart. “What kind of cat is a really big disaster?” “Catastrophe!”

In homage to Jonas, whom my kidlings think is Elvis, I offer my “What kind of mom are you?” quiz. Kind of a weak homage, really, because the quiz doesn’t incorporate the letters “mom” in the answers. I’m not that clever.

Because most

I’m now the veteran of two parties where extra kidlings spent the night not sleeping in my home. OK, I’m exaggerating. They did sleep. Some. I’m the one who barely slept. Taking care of my own children is scary enough. Throw more into the mix, and I go on high alert.

Here are a few lessons I learned from my kids’ first spend-the-night parties:

1. Make the cake ahead of time. Letting four kids “help” me in the kitchen was a disaster. One little girl ended up with cake batter running down

Recognizing that my kid’s personality is her own, that she’s not a mini-me in her opinions or interests, continues to surprise me. I understand that genetically, she’s only half me, but she still manages to prove that she’s more than the sum of her parents.

Example: Over the past three years, my 9-year-old girl child has evolved into a baseball fanatic.

Until our daughter became a trash-talking, stats-spouting fangirl, her dad’s involvement with the world of baseball included reading the

Last week, I became a Stage One Empty Nester. My boy started “big” school, while my girl entered third grade. My morning nest is empty — still rife with Legos, crayons and waffle crumbs, but devoid of smallish humans.

I’m not sure how I feel about this. “Secretly thrilled” is battling with “deeply sad” in my parental soul.

Helpfully, Dickson Elementary School hosted a “Tea and Tissues” get-together after the first day’s drop-off. The event offered parents the chance to “share a little