Being female, and by that I mean driven by erratic and inconsistent levels of estrogen at any given time, I have an ongoing and intimate relationship with “fussy.” Being the mother of two pixies, also driven by erratic and inconsistant levels of… well, anything, I actually reside in a town called “fussy.” And Michael, being the only male in our family, experiences “fussy” like Tom Hanks in The Terminal – you can wander around and eat all the condiments you want to baby, but you’re not leaving the facility.

It would be ideal to experience the different levels of fussy gradually, rather than being catapulted straight to DefCon 10, but one doesn’t get to ease into the warm bath in our house. A typically fussy day will generally begin with DRAMA, which usually occurs before eyelids have opened for the morning!!! One minute we are all happy and congenial. And then, out of nowhere, it happens. A deep and distant rumbling begins, hearkening what will eventually mushroom into an all-out, throw-down, run-for-cover FUSS!!!!!!!!!

Now, please realize: Fussiness has no sense of priority. An empty sippy cup can elicit the same level of fussing as, say a severed limb – but with slightly less Neosporin. Fussiness has no sense of timing. It is equally valid to explode during SpongeBob as it is to erupt into screaming during the national anthem or intensive heart surgery. And fusiness has no specific target. The pixies are just as happy to take their discontent to me or Michael as to the mailman, the innocent but non-responsive television spokesperson, or the unfortunate homeless man within earshot of their rolled-down car window.

But perhaps the most exciting aspect of fuss as it occurs in our household, is the commitment and excellence with which my little artisans practice this craft. You may think you know fussy, but the pixies have elevated it to an entirely different form all together. They are like the Van Gogh and Picasso of whinging and moaning. Taking the tiniest, most insignificant matter – say a missing blanket or a hangnail – and infusing it with emotional chaos and vocal ferocity more appropriate to an alien invasion or massive head wound.

It’s quite impressive.

What is it like to be the mother of the pixies?

Moments find my heart full of exultation. I rejoice in the otherness of my daughters. Such unique beings – unlike any others on earth. They are fey and fairy-like. The synapses of their brains are not simply wired differently – the very material of the wiring is of another place. They are quite simply one-of-a-kind. And I’m so very proud that I have put beings like this on the planet. But…

other days find my insides heavy and soaked with the seemingly unbearable responsibility of helping such otherness navigate the mysterious experience of life. How can I possibly prepare two such odd and alien children for encounter with the world around them? How will they ever be anything other than “weird?” And I blame myself that I was unable, through the very material that makes me me, to genetically infuse them with anything remotely normal, so that they would never feel, as I do, like strangers in a strange land.

Ah, such is being mother to the pixies.

(sigh)